


The Lion and the King

by EinahSirro



Series: The Lion and the Bull [11]
Category: Troy (2004)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Castles, Intrigue, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Mystery, Plots, Reincarnation, Royalty, Soulmates, True Love, towers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:28:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 26,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22103332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EinahSirro/pseuds/EinahSirro
Summary: For those who have walked this path with me, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and I hope you like this next adventure!
Relationships: Achilles/Hector (Troy 2004)
Series: The Lion and the Bull [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1513298
Comments: 18
Kudos: 39





	1. One More Try

Achilles came ashore in early morning at Canua. Expressionlessly, he rose from the water, naked in the pre-dawn light, and walked slowly up the beach toward the Keep. He lifted his eyes, noting how it had been added to in the last 240 years. It had grown and it had aged, rather like him. But there was a very wide, paved path now. One did not need to tramp up through the grass to reach it. There were steps. But the grass against the walls was high. It did not look well-maintained. Perhaps it had outlived its purpose, he thought dully.

Mounting the steps to the front of the tower, Achilles did not concern himself with finding a way inside. What he wanted should be—if Luke had done what he’d promised—wrapped in a bundle and hidden in a niche behind the grass where the tower met the east wall. He squatted, feeling about, and found what he sought. 

Pulling out the large bundle, he unwrapped it to find the dark trousers, very tight, the long—very long—blue tunic, but a lighter blue than the deep indigo of his day. Dark Cloak. Boots with very pointed toes. A soft felt hat that seemed rather like a crown, for it didn’t cover the ears. 

Under the clothing was a sword, dagger, and belt. A satchel with his oils. A map. A letter with the now-ancient seal of the Lord Arduina, along with a ring with the same insignia for Achilles’ own use. Money, too. Coins of modern stamp. Golden pebbles and seashells were all very good, but for not attracting attention, modern local coins were best.

Achilles clad himself, thinking that people were wearing more and more clothes as time went on, and he wondered why. Then he straightened and pushed his wet hair back, and turned to face the rising sun. Anyone who had known the Achilles of prior times might have been concerned by the look in his eyes this April morning. His face was as clean-lined and handsome as ever, that lower lip as full and youthful as it was when he cheerfully terrorized Hector in the gardens of Troy. But his blue eyes now were like an opaque sheet of stained glass that hid guilt and pain. 

Achilles considered himself a weapon now, more than ever. And that weapon, carelessly handled, had hurt his Hector almost as many times as it had helped him. After his fragile Henri had slipped away, with Achilles at his side, he marked it quietly and tearlessly as the second time he had accidentally killed his love. 

Luke had come upon him some days later, sitting before the fire pit in the courtyard at night, staring blankly at the dancing flames.

“Your mother says the sea-god has found Hector,” Luke said quietly, sitting down beside Achilles. He had learned, over the years, never to refer to _the next Hector, or a new Hector, or another Hector._ It was Hector. Hector sometimes went missing, like a small child who has wandered off at the market, but then he was found again, that was how Thetis and Luke referred to the situation in front of Achilles.

Achilles nodded absently and returned to absolute stillness.

Luke was not sure how to handle Achilles’ spells, as he thought of them. He himself was very old now, and in fact had been consciously awake and aware far longer than Achilles. Centuries now. But Luke lacked driving ambition, and was not tormented by a cursed love. He enjoyed eating and drinking, adoring his goddess, having occasional forays out into the world—short ones—and watching times change in the crystal ball. Tending to the horses and helping around the citadel filled the rest of his time. And if some of his mellowness had anything to do with the drinks his goddess made for him from time to time, well, that was fine. Very kind of her, in fact. Free will was not a concept Luke concerned himself with.

“Matilde wants to return to Canua.” Luke added. “We were thinking she might help Otto and Clare. They have two more children now, so…”

Achilles nodded, eyes unseeing.

Luke inhaled awkwardly. “Your mother was hoping you would take her. I—I am not getting younger, she says.”

Finally, Achilles pulled himself from his trance and looked at Luke. It was true. He rarely left the island, but even the occasional excursion added up after 500 years.  
His dark blond hair had grey in it. His jawline was heavier than it had been. 

“I’ll take her,” Achilles promised, and returned to staring at the fire.

Luke shifted around a bit, and then held up his chalice for one of the handmaids to refill.

“So… do you want to hear where Hector will be waiting for you?” He asked, again being careful how he phrased it.

There was a long pause.

“… Yes,” Achilles admitted, lowering his eyes as if it was a weakness.

“France, again. 13th century, near Paris. The sea god says he can’t get you there, it’s very far inland. We were thinking, if he just gets you to Canua, it’s familiar… and you can travel overland from there.”

There was no answer.

“He doesn’t have a name this time, he says the situation is confusing. But do you know what he did say?” Luke asked temptingly, hoping to rouse Achilles from this stupor. “King of France! That’s our clue. I think Hector is going to be king of France!”

Luke leaned against Achilles’ shoulder, nudging him. “He’s never been King before!”

Achilles inhaled and forced a smile. “Well, he was king as Aeneas,” he said.

“That was a small town. This is FRANCE!” Luke held up one hand with fingers splayed. 

Achilles nodded again, but his smile gradually faded and he returned to staring at the fire. Finally he spoke.

“Maybe I should just let him go.”

Luke swallowed some wine and kept silent for a moment, waiting to see if there would be more. There wasn’t.

“If you do he’ll… probably not last very long,” Luke pointed out carefully. “You know the fixes he gets himself into.”

Achilles gave a small, dry chuckle. “Yes.”

“You… you’re in pain. There’s no rush. You might decide to wait here for the duration, and see how you feel when the time comes around. Maybe you’ll forget all about him.” Luke said reasonably.

Achilles didn’t answer.

“Or you can take Matilde back to Canua and … go adventuring! You can do anything! You’re free, more or less.”

Now the young god looked at the old man. “You’re not free, are you?”

Luke smiled, shaking his head ruefully. “I shouldn’t have said it like that. I’m pretty happy here. It’s my own little Mt Olympus.”

“Why can Hector never be happy here?” Achilles muttered rather bitterly.

Luke shrugged wryly. “He’s a bit more complicated than me. Maybe the question is, why couldn’t you fall in love with a lazy lug like me? Because YOU would not be happy.”

Achilles clenched his teeth, and Luke could see the movement in his lean cheeks. “I’m not happy anyway.”

“Well, not at the moment, obviously… you… ah… you told me once that you mourn every time,” Luke’s voice softened.

He could see his companion’s shoulders lift as he took a breath, trying to keep his emotions under control. “They’re all a little different. And they all have memories…”

“…That vanish with them,” Luke guessed, watching the blond head nod. “But that’s changing, isn’t it? Philip had no idea who you were, but Victor was automatically fascinated. Hermenegild had dreams and so did Xander, and Henri… he recognized you!”

Achilles gave a huff of laughter that might have been a sob in disguise. “It’s a slow process.”

“Let me ask you something,” Luke waved his chalice a bit. “Are you thinking that you _want_ to stop, or that you _should_ stop?”

Achilles straightened his back with interest. No one had asked him anything like that before.

“That I should. That… there’s so much pain when I lose him that maybe I should take that as a message. Stop. Let it go.”

Luke nodded thoughtfully. “That’s how I used to feel about training when I was young. I mean, learning to fight, you know. Swords. My muscles were killing me, and if I stopped training, they would stop hurting.”

Achilles gave a reluctant laugh. “Right.”

Luke motioned for one of the handmaids to bring Achilles some wine. They drank in companionable silence for a moment.

“So do you think I should stop?” Achilles asked curiously.

“No,” Luke said instantly. “Never. But especially not now. You’re punishing yourself over Henri. Give yourself one more chance. Give Hector one more chance, because without you, we know what happens.”

“Even with me—“

“Without you is worse,” Luke said immediately. “Look, you’re afraid you’re going against fate somehow, but I say, who put fate in charge? Is there even anyone driving this chariot, or is it just a wheel that keeps going till it grinds us all to a powder? Fight it! … I’m fighting it,” he added a bit righteously.

Achilles grinned at him, having been sufficiently distracted from his grief now. “How are you fighting it?”

“By staying here and not dying! It’s my own little rebellion. Fuck the wheel of destiny!” He lifted his chalice.

Achilles lifted his chalice too. “Alright. Fuck the wheel.” He said moderately. 

Luke gave him a slap on the back. “Wait here. I’ll bring the map and show you where you’re going. When the time comes, I’ll even send you a care package. At least you speak French pretty well now!”

Achilles took another drink of his wine, the smile on his lips lingering for a bit. But gradually, it faded away again. Yes, then, alright… he’d try one more time. Still… his eyes were not the same today as they were before. But yes… one more try.


	2. FRANCE!

Walking through Canua in 1276 was very much like visiting any of the previous locations: the things that changed shocked him, and the things that hadn’t… shocked him. The manse of the Arduinas was still standing, behind an iron gate now. The trees around it were different. 

The cathedral still stood. He went to it and made a large donation, making sure the clergy there took down his name and made a record of it. He didn’t know why he did this. He felt as though he wanted to be known in Canua again—perhaps he was nostalgic for the affection with which the villagers had sent him off three years ago. Well, to him it was three years.

He found his way to the center of town and bought a horse, noting that saddles had again evolved, becoming higher, thicker, and more complex than ever. Headware for the horse was also turning into a bit of a puzzle, but Achilles watched and learned.

Before he left, Achilles could not resist looking to see if the shop of Isaac and Nahum still existed. He was heartened to find that not only did it exist, but it had expanded to the sites on either side, and was now qualified to be called an emporium. He entered quietly and picked amongst the odds and ends, surreptitiously casting glances at the man and wife who seemed to be the current proprietors. Yes, they looked as if they could be descendants, certainly.

He waited till the wife went into the back, and then edged up to the counter and, purely for old time’s sake, offered a golden pebble to be weighed and converted to coin. The young man behind the counter had a long beard, and wore two pieces of glass on his face that were attached to each other.

Fascinated, Achilles leaned closer, staring. He’d seen a single piece of glass that men had used to hold and peer through, but these were hooked the wearer’s ears and just… sat there. On his face.

The proprietor became aware that his handsome blond customer was leaning very close to him, and looked up cautiously.

“Yes?”

Achilles reached out and carefully lifted the device off the man’s face, turning it this way and that. Then he peered through the glass and reared back immediately at the wild distortion that assaulted his vision.

Rather than take offense, the fellow’s face split into a grin. “Lunettes, we call them.” 

Achilles handed them back slowly. “I like new things,” he said, by way of explanation. 

“Ah. Let me show you this, then,” the proprietor said genially, and came from behind the counter. Only then did Achilles notice his limp. He waited quietly, studying the man’s feet with narrowed eyes, but lifted his head quickly when the black-clad figure turned again with something in his hand.

It was circular and bronze, no bigger than an apple, with a glass covering and what looked like a four pointed star inside. Then he noticed the black needle pointing between two of the four arms of the star.

“Now watch,” the shopkeeper said, and turned the device this way and that. No matter which way he turned it, the needle continued to point in the same direction.

“That needle knows which way is north. No matter where you go, or where you turn, it will tell you where north is.”

Excitement ran all over Achilles’ skin, and he felt more alert than he had since… well, in weeks.

The fellow let him hold it, and the warrior turned this way and that, and then whirled in a circle, watching as the needle held steady.

“It’s a compass. The Hans invented it.”

“The Huns?” Achilles asked.

“No, Hans. Far east. Far, far east.”

 _Ah, the land of the gong,_ Achilles thought. “How much?” He asked.

The proprietor counted out his coins for the gold, holding back a few for thecompass, and Achilles slipped it into his bag, delighted. Before he left, he turned and offered his hand. The proprietor hesitated… Christians didn’t usually shake his hand, but this one seemed eccentric. With an internal shrug, he smiled and shook the man’s hand. His customer held his hand rather longer than was normal, and squeezed it, and lowered his head for a bit, but then released him and, with an odd little smile, left the store.

Jacob stared after him, still feeling the touch of the blond man’s hand for several minutes. Then he gave a shiver of his shoulders—there was something odd about all that—and returned to sorting the key templates behind the counter.

When his wife called to him from the back, Jacob took a step and tripped, falling to the floor with a grunt. He caught himself with his hands and turned and sat, reaching for his foot. It was as if the shoe he’d had made for his club foot had lost its heel, or… perhaps the lace had broken?

Jacob pulled off the shoe and inspected it. It was fine. Then he looked at his foot and drew in his breath. His foot looked completely normal. He sat on the floor, dazed and in shock, until his wife came and found him, and they both sat on the floor together, staring at his foot, wondering how this had happened.

Within the hour, Achilles was on the road, shiny new toy in his hand, heading north. He had at least a week’s journey before him, but all roads led to Paris. He wasn’t concerned about getting lost, only about not being timely. Certainly, the sea-god had cut it close a few times, and while four days was not a long time in the grand scheme of things, it tended to be extremely important at the very beginning.

There were long stretches of road where Achilles met no travelers, and occasional places where he met the sorts of travelers who wanted to take his belongings, and needed a display of swordplay to convince them otherwise. But between these diversions, there were plenty of little towns where he located the sole tavern and found that the villagers were as eager to get news from him as he from them. He learned to glean whatever he could about the current local situation, not only for his own edification, but so that he could barter gossip at the next town. 

In one town he heard that King Philip III was on his second wife—and she wasn’t even French! In the next town when he heard about the new wife, he himself added that qualifier quickly, and with disapproval. That earned him instant likability, and more informative conversation. 

From what Achilles could tell, the king was exactly the right age to be his Hector, although he kept an open mind, still remembering that moment when he’d gaped at King Abgar, not knowing his beloved was shuffling around in a cowl right behind him.

Paying attention to the conversations around him at the taverns and halls, Achilles learned of the Crusades, and to speak of them philosophically as a noble endeavor that was sadly doomed. Remembering how he’d marked time by the Roman Emperors, he looked back on that method now as beautifully simple, for apparently now, there were not only French kings and queens to concern oneself with, but kings and queens of neighboring areas who were all coming and going and intermarrying at a dizzying pace. 

He supposed it had always been this way, but he and his Hector had usually managed to settle in one place and let the world turn around them. Traveling across a country, trying to glean information, exposed one to the welter of political intrigue that comprised the sort of news one shared with travelers, as opposed to local gossip.

But still, the situation seemed much more complex in this current age. Adding a layer to Achilles’ confusion, now the church was so powerful it had a king too. Popes were commented upon as much as kings, but it was not as easy to find the safest attitude to strike with Popes. In Canua, Pope Gregory X was a wise man in his dealings with the Mongols, and this new fellow, Innocent V, was a bungler who was making trouble with Italy. In Grenoble, Gregory had been struck down by God for a reason, and Innocent was not going to fall into the same trap with Italy, because England was a more immediate concern, and he knew it.

Achilles blinked into his ale—which he was choking down with the blandest face he could—and tried to keep it all straight. 

Still, from what he could gather, King Philip the Bold was handsome, in his early 30s, a powerful horseman but not an aggressive personality, and had three sons. It sounded very much like his Hector.

In Lyon he learned the interesting gossip that the new queen (who was not even French) was about to bear her first child, and local sentiment was that a queen with three stepsons by her husband’s first wife might as well have a daughter for all the good a son would do her.

In the main tavern at Auxerre, Achilles toasted the queen, “May she have a fine daughter!” To uproarious laughter, and was immediately invited by the local baron, who was jolly and bald, to have dinner and a night’s lodging at his manor. To Achilles’ boundless relief, the baron had wine, and he was able to leave off the vile ale for a night.

“Have you ever seen King Philip?” Achilles asked his host once they’d gotten safely into their cups.

“Ah, no. This one stays at the Chateau of Vincennes most of the time. But his father, now! His father was a king! Louis IX, he gave this country stability. He was king when I was born! All my life, we had Louis IX, God save him. I saw him three times, my parents took me to court once when I was young—“

Achilles listened politely, but mostly he was focusing on the Chateau of Vincennes.

“How far is that from here?” He asked.

“The Chateau? Pfff… fifty miles? Why?” 

“I have a letter to deliver from Lord Arduina of Canua about the situation of the monks of Lerins.” Achilles had learned to rattle that off at the first query as to why a gentleman like himself might be traveling alone toward Paris.

“For the king? You have a letter for the king? Surely not,” the baron snorted. Achilles realized his blunder—kings were a bit less approachable these days, apparently.

“No, no, for the… oh, I have it written down… that fellow he’s so close to,” Achilles improvised.

“Ah, that de la Broce! Mmmm!” The Baron nodded knowingly. “He came up quick, didn’t he?”

Achilles nodded wisely. “Very quickly.”

“He was a nobody under Louis IX, but now! Oh! He’s at the new king’s side every minute! I suppose your Lord Arduina is hoping for some help from him, eh? He’s in the position now to give help, I’ll say that.”

“It pays to know who is who, I suppose,” Achilles ventured.

The Baron toasted to that sentiment, “To Pierre de la Broce; a man who knows how to get into the inner chamber!”

Achilles laughed and lifted his cup, “Pierre de la Broce,” he agreed, determined to remember that name.


	3. Pierre de la Broce

Once Achilles located the Chateau de Vincennes, he found an inn and left his horse, and then mulled over his approach. Going through the church had worked before, so Achilles asked around for the largest cathedral in the area, and was directed to a cathedral the locals simply referred to as Our Lady, three miles away. It wasn’t difficult to find. He just followed the river until he saw a complex stone structure that made his eyebrows raise.

The thing was incredible: a cathedral that had sprouted stone spider’s legs on the sides, and towers in the front, and a spike on the top that shot up like a needle in the sky. And all around it, people were walking around as if the gorgeous monstrosity were simply a normal part of their daily lives.

Walking quietly through the nave of the massive edifice, Achilles found his footsteps slowing in awe. He tipped his head back to stare up at the vaulted ceilings, so far overhead. Then his gaze lowered gradually to the intricate stained glass, so colorful and delicate. His feet stopped and he just stood, thinking of what Philip and Hermenegild would have thought, had they only been able to see this one sight. He felt a quiet sorrow that they never saw it. But fate was the ultimate lethe… for everyone except him.

When he had recovered, he went looking for a member of the clergy to bribe. It took a bit of “donating” to establish that he needed the highest ranking available member, and unlike a local, he couldn’t look at their robes and know whether he was speaking to a priest, a cardinal, or a bishop, and which was superior to the other. But after reflecting on the simple garb Philip and Lucien had worn, as opposed to the velvets and gems of Bardaisan, he decided to find the man who most reminded him of Bardaisan, and start with him.

After some negotiations, Achilles eventually found himself in an office well away from the public areas, with a velvety, berobed fellow well-jeweled and heavy jowled who looked irritated at being asked to grant an audience. Even the gold Achilles “donated” did not impress him unduly.

“If you have a letter for Councilor de la Broce, I can assure you, I am capable of delivering it,” the fellow insisted, seeming uncertain just what this muscular blond pilgrim expected of him.

“I think I must deliver it myself. It’s a matter of some importance,” Achilles said, drawing the sealed note from his satchel. It was actually just a letter of introduction that Achilles had written himself and let Otto seal for him. It was then pressed into one of the books on the island and left untouched for 240 years. But he counted on it that “having a letter to deliver” would open doors.

The clergyman, whoever he was, frowned and peered at the letter. “There’s no name on it,” he protested.

Achilles looked behind him as if assuring their privacy. Then he turned his eyes back to the fellow.

“No,” he said meaningfully, and stared.

The cardinal—or whatever he was—grew rather serious and alarmed, and shifted in his seat, then nodded. 

“We’ll travel separately,” his voice lowered. “I go to the Chateau after vespers, to conduct an evening service for the Queen and the children. The King, of course, is not yet returned from the dedication ceremony at the Cathedral of Amiens. Councilor de la Broce always attends the family in the king’s absence. Now,” his eyes fell to Achilles’ _donation_ and he hesitated. “I cannot guarantee you an audience. There is a small public section for visitors who have business with the king, you sit in the very back, do you understand? I will find a quiet moment to inform the Councilor of your errand. If his curiosity is piqued—“ the cardinal spread his beringed hands expressively.

Achilles nodded, tucking the letter away again. “I’ll be there,” he promised, and bowed himself out in a courtly manner, leaving his _donation_ on the desk.

Once he was outside of the cathedral, he ground his teeth in frustration. King Philip was in Amiens? He found a quiet spot around the side of the cathedral and dug his map out of his satchel. Oh, a good 60 miles, it looked like. He sighed and tucked it away. Then he calmed himself. He always found Hector, and he always found him in time. Perhaps this Councilor was his Hector! Probably not, but one never knew. Fate was odd.

Leaving his mount with the hostler of the inn, Achilles crossed the Seine, peering uneasily over the side of the wooden bridge at the churning river below, and retraced his steps back to the Chateau de Vincennes. Settling himself against the wall near the main entrance, much as he had done when stalking King Abgar, he waited for the evening ceremonies, reflecting that this situation was very similar, in fact. He studied every man who passed him, reflecting that Hector could be… anywhere. If he wasn’t King Philip III, that is.

When sunset neared, the number of petitioners increased, and Achilles felt the time was at hand. The arrival of the clergy from the cathedral was somewhat more a matter of pomp and circumstance than Bardaisan traipsing up the dirt road of Edessa, or the Bishop of Hispalis striding across the square with the Captain of the Guard. The cardinal arrived in a litter, followed by three other priests, also in litters, and each litter was carried by four monks, so this was an entourage of some impact. 

Once they had parked themselves, Achilles saw that he’d chosen the wrong entrance to hover by: the chapel had a separate entrance undoubtedly meant to ensure that visitors were not traipsing through parts of the chateau they had no business in. The more modest section of the edifice was where he needed to be, and he wandered over, falling in with the visitors and admiring the practiced maneuverings of the clergymen. They had a very smooth routine, and the litters were placed two on either side of the entrance, forming a sort of boxy black honor guard along which visitors entered in an orderly fashion, greeted by the priests.

Achilles fell in with the visitors and made quick eye contact with “his” clergyman as he entered the chapel and seated himself in the back row. 

The Royal Family, seated in the front and to the side of the sanctuary, were fully on display when they entered, and the congregation rose respectfully. Achilles eyed the young Queen, who was so richly and heavily draped, furred, and robed, it concealed her pregnancy. He noted that only two of the three young children were present.

During the next half hour of the formal service, Achilles rose and sat and knelt and rose and sat and rose and sat with the rest, and heard absolutely nothing the priests said. He was busy examining every face he could as surreptitiously as he could. The men were seated on the left side of the chapel, so he had only that area to survey. But none of them was Hector.

When the service was over, Achilles was not the only one to linger. He moved carefully amongst the other pilgrims and petitioners, keeping an eye on his cardinal. At length, he saw him speaking to a man who seemed to have proximity to the section where the Royal family had been seated, although they had vacated immediately upon the completion of the service. But this fellow, his back to Achilles, richly garbed, with rather long dark hair down his shoulders, stayed to speak to the cardinal very near the sanctuary, and the warrior felt certain that this was Councilor de la Broce.

Waiting until the cardinal gave him some sort of encouraging sign that his petition had been forwarded, Achilles finally saw the clergyman turn toward him with a meaningful look, and a slight movement of the hand.

Achilles came forward and the Councilor turned his head to display a serious, attentive face… with vivid blue eyes. The warrior actually faltered in his step, unable to believe his luck. His Eudorus stared at him for a long, blinking moment, as if caught in a wave of _déjà vu._ Achilles stepped up to him and thought _know me. You know me._

“Of course,” the Councilor breathed, nodding dazedly. “Of course, thank you Father.” He held out a hand for Achilles to grasp, and the cardinal, relieved that he had not been bribed into committing an embarrassing faux pas, gave them each a cordial nod and vacated the premises as fast as he could without being unseemly.

Achilles and his Eudorus stood for a moment together awkwardly, glancing around them as if sensing that they would prefer to suss each other out without witnesses. Finally, still looking a bit confused, the Councilor escorted Achilles through the same private door through which the Queen had exited with two of her three stepsons.

They were now in a rather dim, narrow stone passage that presumably led to the more private areas of the chateau.

“You have a letter?” The Councilor finally asked in a low voice.

Achilles retrieved it from his satchel and handed it over silently. The Councilor took it, inspecting the seal, and then opening it. The letter was dated 1039 and said, _This is Achilles. He’s here to help._ (Achilles, it must be remembered, was not a fan of writing long letters.)

The Councilor held the fragile parchment, utterly perplexed. “This is very old,” he murmured, and then looked up with those startling eyes. “I don’t understand.”

Achilles took the letter with a smile, held it in his fingers, and imagined the smell of sulfur. In a moment, flames shot up from his fingers and consumed the paper in front of his Eudorus’ stunned gaze. Achilles dropped the letter to the stone floor and they both watched it curl up and turn to ash. The Councilor lifted his head and stared again at him, mouth open.

“I’m an angel.” Achilles smiled. “I need to see the King.”


	4. Louis

After a long, hypnotized moment, Eudorus—Pierre, now, led Achilles further down the passage and into a small but elegant main hall hung with red and blue tapestries, and a long table in the center.

Pierre looked about quickly. “It said you can help.”

Achilles narrowed his eyes and then nodded. “I usually can. What is happening?”

The Councilor hesitated, and Achilles took his hand, thinking _Speak!_

“It’s the prince. Prince Louis, the eldest. He’s almost twelve. He’s desperately ill, and his majesty is a day’s ride away, and …” Pierre looked about again. He looked terrified. 

“What kind of illness?” Achilles asked, more curious than concerned.

“I think he’s been poisoned,” the Councilor whispered, so faintly he could barely be heard.

“Poisoned?!” Achilles blurted.

“SSsshhhhh!!!” The blue eyes were round as buttons.

Achilles thought it over. He’d healed smallpox and injuries, perhaps poison wasn’t beyond him. “May I see him?”

“See the Prince of France?” the Councilor clarified pointedly.

Achilles looked over at the unlit candles on the table. Casually, he reached out and pinched one to life, just to remind his Eudorus that he was not the average petitioner.

“Yes. I’d like to see the Prince of France,” he said with a trace of amusement. Then he grew more serious. If the boy’s father was Hector, he definitely wanted to heal the child. “I might be able to help him.”

Fifteen minutes later, Achilles stood in the large, darkly paneled, well-appointed chamber with the Royal Physician and the Royal Councilor at his side, and gazed down into the heavily curtained, four poster bed. This was the ugliest child he’d ever seen. He was long and skinny, but with large hands and feet, a large nose, large ears, small chin, spotty cheeks, swollen eyes, mottled skin, and his head and eyebrows had apparently been shaved completely off, “to fight the fever,” the Royal Physician informed him loftily. He was not pleased to then be dismissed from the room—however politely—by the Councilor.

Tipping his head quizzically, Achilles regarded the pitiful boy. His face was contorted in pain, and he was curled on his side, panting, and barely conscious. His face was livid.

“Let’s see then,” Achilles murmured, and placed his hands gently on the boy, pouring his powers of healing into the gut area, where he felt certain the damage was being done. Almost immediately, the boy’s labored breathing eased and some of the mottling left his cheeks. Achilles continued his ministrations, and the grimace of pain faded. Eventually the boy’s eyes opened—they were very dark—and he stared at Achilles without speaking. When the warrior felt he’d done all he could, he straightened and turned away from the bed, allowing his Eudorus to step up and lean over.

“That’s amazing. He looks much better,” the Councilor murmured. His dazzling eyes roved over the boy as if he was contemplating a conundrum.

“But,” Achilles lowered his voice. “If what you fear is true, you probably should remove him from danger.”

Eudorus gave him a very somber look. “I’m working on that,” he assured Achilles.

Achilles went to the door. “Can you get me an audience with King Philip?”

The Councilor nodded. “I can do better. I can make you the messenger about—“ he glanced at the boy who was now sleeping peacefully on the bed. “Come with me to my suite. I’ll write you a letter. You’ll be a guest here tonight, and in the morning, we’ll fit you out from the stable here and you’ll be on your way to Amiens.”

Smiling, Achilles followed him. Letters were always the way, he thought.

It was late in the evening now, and Achilles was in a very comfortable guest bedroom. The bed was hung with velvet curtains, the fireplace was cheerfully crackling, and the windows were so draped in shining folds of fabric, one had to fight through them to see… a view of the fortifying wall surrounding the original hunting lodge that comprised the sleeping quarters.

He had just stripped off his outer gear and was picking at the fine silver tray of fruit that had been brought to his chambers, when a quiet scratch at his door made him raise his head with a scowl. He opened the door.

“Eudorus,” he said unthinkingly, and waved the Councilor in.

“Eudorus,” the Councilor said back, apparently thinking it was some sort of greeting common in the south.

Achilles smirked and ate another grape. “Has anything happened?”

“No, the boy is better,” Pierre said absently. 

Achilles sat in a comfortable chair by the fire—he had to admit, making the seats of leather was an improvement over the hard wood he was accustomed to.

“But there’s something you want to tell me?” He asked, waiting for Pierre to sit as well. He did.

“It’s about the letter you’ll be carrying. It bears bad news, and you know how the messengers are sometimes received.” 

“I thought you said the boy was better,” Achilles said, elbow on the chair, fingers thoughtfully at his lips.

“Yes, but…” Pierre turned those eyes on him. “You haven’t asked who poisoned him.”

“Oh. Well, I assume it’s the Queen. She’ll want her own child to be king one day, and,” Achilles leaned forward confidentially, “she has that look.” 

The Councilor exhaled, put his hands together prayerfully and then brought them up to his face. “How do I tell Philip that?? If he believes me, he must rid himself of her, which he cannot do without damage to relations with all her people. And without proof, no one will believe. But if he does not believe, he must see me as a liar, or a betrayer… I don’t know what to do.”

Achilles nodded slowly. He could easily see the dilemma. “Did you write your suspicions in the letter?”

“Not as such. Not too clearly. But still… the letter will upset him.”

Achilles sighed. There was nothing he could say. Pierre gave him a searching look, as if he wanted to say something else, but then he rose and bade him goodnight, abruptly. The warrior closed the door behind his friend, and contemplated the fire for a bit.

Then he went to bed. Tomorrow he began another journey—hopefully to his Hector. If his news was that the new wife was a murderous harpy, well… he was willing to break up that marriage, he thought with a small curve of his lips. Stretching, he turned and crawled into the bed.

It was a very soft bed.


	5. Philip III

To his annoyance, Achilles found himself being shaken awake well before dawn. He rolled over, contemplating violence, but it was his Eudorus, looking disheveled and rather frantic.

“You must go now,” he whispered. “You must leave immediately to ride to Amiens. Here is a new letter; take this instead. I’ve burned the old letter, this is the one you must take, come, go now.”

Grumbling like an old man, Achilles extracted himself from the bed and gulped down some water to clear his mind. Once he was up and moving, he was himself again.

“I’ll meet you by the stables. Hurry, please,” Pierre told him, and left a sealed letter on his satchel with a meaningful look.

Achilles readied himself, strapped on his gear, tucked the letter in his satchel, and was out in the cool dark morning in a trice. A horse was already waiting for him, and Pierre stood at the horse’s head, holding the bridle, his face a study of anxiety and fear.

“Here is the itinerary to Amiens; as long as you keep to the main roads and note these towns as you pass, you are on your way. My Lord, a quick word—“

Achilles mounted and looked down curiously. His Eudorus truly seemed gripped with anxiety. 

“Yes?”

“Be aware that much has happened in the night that you are not aware of. Please, do not offer any information to expound upon what I have said in this letter.”

Achilles nodded agreeably. He didn’t care what was in the letter. He cared about finding Hector. He shook the Councilor’s hand and left the courtyard, his horse’s hooves ringing loud in the silent morning. Even the birds were still asleep.

The two days’ journey to Amiens was very much like the last leg of the journey to Paris in reverse. The city fell away, the countryside grew wide and rolling, the air was fresh and clear, and Achilles was in a better mood than he had been. He was finally going to see King Philip—who was most likely his Hector—break up his marriage, take credit for saving his child, and … maybe this time things would go well. 

France didn’t seem to be in danger of attack from anyone at the moment, the warrior mused. Surely the nature of war must have changed by now anyway… this was no little city state with a wall around it, this—as Luke had so graphically displayed with his splayed hand—was FRANCE!

Achilles smiled to himself as his horse cantered along, and then dug out his compass to check for the fifth time that yes, yes he was heading north. 

His arrival in the town of Amiens late the next afternoon required much less searching and negotiating; he was after all, now an official emissary to the King of France, bearing news from his majesty’s most trusted Councilor. Achilles located the town’s cathedral and let the clergy arrange his escort to the Chateau de Picquigny, an eerily featureless, white-stoned castle on extensive lands outside the city.

Achilles was ushered in by servants rendered immediately respectful: a muscular blond knight—he must be a knight, though he carried no shield—accompanied by the local clergy and bearing a letter with the seal of the Councilor? For the King? They were very respectful, and Achilles stood in a large study off of the main hall, his feet sinking deep in a thick tapestry, admiring the cool, pale, smoothness of the castle. This was rather agreeable, he decided, to be welcomed in such a manner.

In a moment, a door at the other end of the study opened, and three men entered, garbed in rather more garments than anyone needed for the weather. In addition to their drapery and collars, they wore extensive headgear which consisted of, from what Achilles could tell, an entire woman’s shawl twisted and wrapped around the head and set at a rakish angle. The clothes were a lesser concern, however, than the fact that… none of these three men were Hector.

Achilles suppressed—barely—a sigh of impatience and gave a polite bow, although by the chilly reception he got, they’d expected more.

“You have a letter for me?” The one in the middle asked, his lips pressed together.

For a moment, it occurred to Achilles that he actually had no idea what King Philip III looked like. It also occurred to him that in no time in history was it a good idea to casually say to a king, “Depends. Are you Philip?”

Silently, he produced the letter, his blue eyes narrowing as he took in the King of France. He was indeed the right age, and his looks were regular enough, but his coloring was unremarkable, his features even but thin, and in no way was he the lambent, plaintive, strong-shouldered, curly-haired, courtly Hector whom Achilles still loved.

He was drawn from his disappointment by the king’s reaction as he read the letter. His fingers went to his lips, then he turned and went to the window, as if to see the writing better.

“Sire?” Said one of the men, going to stand by him.

The other, a muscular, bearded chap whom Achilles sensed automatically was the owner of this Chateau, gave Achilles the sort of glare that bearers of bad tidings usually get.

“Renauld,” the king finally said to him, his face pale with shock. “Renauld, my son is dead. Louie is dead!”

Achilles found himself cocking his head in reaction. The boy had died?? He turned away abruptly, staring down at the tapestry. Had his powers failed him or… was this confirmation that a poisoner was to blame? One who had simply re-administered the deadly draught? Immediately, Achilles was suspicious of the Royal Physician.

Grinding his teeth, Achilles realized that even though the boy was not Hector’s son, and therefore not his immediate concern, he found that he was angry to have had his healing undone. But he remembered his Eudorus asking him not to expound upon the information in the letter. It would do the king no good to know that Achilles’ attempts at intercession had merely prolonged the child’s suffering.

He turned back to the king. He still stood by the window. The two men were consulting with him, and they passed the letter back and forth. Finally, the host, Renault de Picquigny, turned to Achilles angrily.

“Is this true? Some sort of virulent contagion?” He looked at the letter angrily and rattled it at Achilles. “It says they were forced to inter him immediately before anyone else is exposed to it. The Queen dares not even come to pay her respects, for fear she will be stricken down with it!”

Achilles had no idea what to say. If Eudorus was passing it off as a virulent contagion, he must be too afraid to name the deed or the culprit. If the body had already been interred, he was more inclined to think the Queen had arranged that. No wonder those blue eyes had been so terrified. He was wise, if he couldn’t save the boy, to leave immediately.

“It’s very tragic,” Achilles finally settled upon, completely at loss and only marginally concerned. He pitied the boy, and he hoped his Eudorus did not fare ill from his proximity to this courtly drama, but mostly he wanted to look around and find Hector.

“The Royal Physician is leaving the Chateau for fear of carrying the contagion to the rest of the family. The Councilor has already left for Touraine?!”

“My God… they put him in the crypt the moment he was cold,” whispered the king. “Without ceremony.”

“Sire, the monks will pray unceasingly for his soul, and guard his tomb with love,” Philip’s other, more mild looking companion assured him.

“Will you return immediately?” asked de Picquigny, scowling.

“I cannot! I cannot, this entire affair with the Cathedral is meant to draw down the animosities still lingering with the Montforts and Edward. It’s a matter of keeping the peace,” Philip said, reaching for the letter again. “My poor Louie,” he added, eyes distressed but, Achilles noted, tearless. “I knew he was ill when I left, but…”

“You must have a memorial befitting the prince when you do return,” the companion said soothingly.

De Picquigny turned back to Achilles. “So, who exactly are you? Are you a chevalier?”

Achilles wasn’t sure what a _chevalier_ was, but it could not be worse than angel, demon, or jinn.

“Yes,” he decided, already wondering how to inspect the other inhabitants of the castle and see if Hector was among them. He must be close to the king.

“You carry no coat of arms,” de Picquigny said suspiciously, but his eyes lingered on the signet ring of the Arduinas, which Achilles now wore.

“No, not for this errand. The Councilor felt it best that I be as inconspicuous as possible,” Achilles said. He was getting very good at improvising.

Both of the king’s men nodded slightly at this. Achilles suppressed a smile. Hints at the importance of secrecy tended to make people instantly feel that they were a part of the mystery if they agreed. But now it seemed that if he was going to be a _chevalier_ , whatever that was, he’d have to have a _coat of arms._ Whatever _that_ was.

“Very well,” de Picquigny decided suddenly. “You’ll be needed to carry the king’s reply, so you’ll stay here until it is ready.” He went to the door and sent a lurking footman for the majordomo, who appeared shortly to take Achilles to wait in the library until his quarters were arranged. “We have a full house,” he said brusquely, “you may have to sleep with the servants. But this is an important errand, not a visit of pleasure.”

With that he left Achilles with the majordomo and returned to his pensive king. Following the majordomo to the library, Achilles came to the conclusion that a chevalier, particularly one with no… coat of arms… did not get quite the same respect an angel did.

“Is there anything I can provide to make your wait more comfortable, Sir Achilles?” 

Ah, but angels did not get called Sir. “Do you have a book on the coat-of-arms?” He asked.

“Coat of arms of which family, Sir?”

_Getting steadily clearer,_ he thought. “Any?”

“I believe this section here,” the majordomo motioned carefully, and Achilles turned to it, determined to educate himself as quickly as possible on Hector’s new world.

“I shall send a footman for you when your quarters are arranged, and of course you’ll be joining the entourage for dinner.”

Achilles had no objection, and turned to peruse the leather bound books while he waited. Dinner would undoubtedly be his time to find his Hector.


	6. Dinner with the King

By dinner time, Achilles was in a small room that was somewhat less ignominious than the servants’ quarters, but clearly of lesser status then guests in the larger quarters. However, he was not offended. Having found a book on the degrees of peerage, he had identified his new rank as… just about on the bottom.

Well, he would worry about that later. At the moment he had one task other than finding Hector: He had studied the coat of arms business, obtained a sheet of paper and a stick of charcoal, which was leaving grey smears all over his fingers, and was at the small, rough table of his room calmly designing the coat of arms of Sir Achilles de Arduina de Canua.

When the gong reverberated through the castle, he raised his head in bliss, smiling to himself, and then gazed down at his coat of arms: a blue lion couchant (well, it would be blue) before a wall (the wall of Troy!), and lying on its paws, a hyacinth. It would be yellow. Achilles tucked the paper in his satchel and made himself as brushed and smoothed and oiled as he could for dinner with the King of France.

Two hours later, he was brooding with disgust at the long table full of chattering noblemen and women. He didn’t care how many courses were served, to him, this dinner was a failure.

First, no word of the death of the prince had been announced, so the table talk was as vapid as could be imagined. He couldn’t complain of his seating; he was right in the middle and had a view of every face. The King was at one end, the host was at the other end, and the closer one was to either, the more important one’s rank. Being a stranger, a mere chevalier (with no coat of arms! Yet) Achilles was very low ranking. He supposed he was lucky not to be standing near the door.

He smiled briefly to himself when he imagined Xander rasping, “Perhaps I can make myself useful in the kitchen!”

The second reason it was a failure, of course, was that there was no Hector here. He’d examined every face. There was no Hector. Achilles was getting rather anxious. It had never been this difficult to find him before.

“So who did you say you were,” asked a bored gentleman to his left with a thin mustache and long, languid features.

“I’m the Prince of Phthia, my mother is a goddess, and I could set you on fire with my mind,” Achilles said, but he said it in Greek, so the fellow just stared.

_“Pardonne?”_

Having vented his irritation with that little remark, Achilles said, “Sir Achilles d’Arduina de Canua,” rather pleased with how it sounded now that he’d practiced a few times.

“Oh, a knight,” said the fellow dismissively, and turned away.

Achilles smoked from the ears for a moment and then gently touched the man’s leg under the table. _Sleep._

The fellow pitched forward into his soup, to the general outcry of the guests in the immediate vicinity.

“Too much to drink,” Achilles whispered to the older woman on his right, and she made a disapproving _moue_ with her lips.

Only when the King was ready to leave the table might the rest of the party rise, and the King seemed to want to speak with his companion at length in a low voice. So the rest of the guests stayed gamely at the table except for the unfortunate on whom Achilles had just taken his out his frustrations. Servants carried him away. Several of the women squirmed as if they would be glad to return to the privacy of their quarters for a bit, but until the King rose, there they sat.

Finally, as a matter of experimentation, Achilles turned and looked at the king, sending a sort of push to him as if trying to make him feel, _you want to leave this room now._ He had called Henri to him that first night of their mutual love-making, had he not?

Had he possibly done that more than once? Who can say. But now he was pushing. He concentrated on it. _Push away, push away, you want to leave this room._

Nothing.

He sighed and accepted it. He could light fires but not put them out, he could summon people but not get rid of them, he could heal people from injuries and some illnesses, but apparently not poisoning. He fumed over his limited powers.

Finally, the King rose, everyone rose, some grimacing in relief, and—oh but they must leave the dining room in the order in which they came, Achilles saw. He was perilously close to letting the inner lion out, but he still wanted to search the entire castle. Where was Hector??

In the end, the King withdrew with his host and companion, who made the explanation in a low voice to one guest that the king had received bad news from Vincennes, and left him to spread it surreptitiously through the ranks of guests. 

The guests dispersed to various destinations after dinner. Some to the library, others to some sort of game room with tables for games with dice. A harp sat in the corner, and the young ladies gathered around it. Some cast appreciative eyes at Achilles, but his low rank and lack of interest in them made him safe from any demands on his time.

When it seemed he would be excusable in doing so, Achilles slipped away from the other guests and began padding about the castle. Perhaps Hector was a prisoner here, locked in a tower, like Hermenegild. He explored on his own as long as he could, and then finally grew impatient. 

He snatched up a passing servant, a young man who seemed to be in charge of lighting the fires in the fireplaces of the chambers so the guests would have warm rooms when they finally retreated for the night.

Achilles cornered the poor creature coming from one room with a bucket full of ashes to empty.

“Is there anyone locked in the tower here?” He asked abruptly, and grabbed the lad’s arm, thinking _Speak._

“N-non,” the young man stammered, staring at him as if this was a most bizarre question.

“Is there a prison under the castle?” He pressed.

The boy nodded. “But no one is in it.”

“Are you certain. I’m looking for a man of about 30, curly black hair, strong and handsome, dark eyes, very serious…?”

The boy shook his head helplessly. He’d seen no one of that description.

Achilles let him go and gave him a gold coin. Frustrated, he prowled till he found the courtyards and gardens, and searched them too, and turned to look at the smooth, expressionless, white stone walls of the castle.

_Where was Hector??_

Finally, he went to his allotted chamber.

Achilles passed a relatively sleepless night, searching his memory for all the previous patterns of Finding Hector.

He landed on the beach of Troy, and met Hector within the hour at the Temple of Apollo.

He landed on the beach of the river near Edessa, and the monk Philip crossed right in front of him, though he didn’t know it, within an hour of getting to the castle of Abgar.

He landed on the shore of Salona and the fishermen had immediately pointed him to the villa of Nepos. He saw Hector within minutes of entering.

He landed in Hispalis and was immediately sold to Gregory, right under the tower of the imprisoned Hermenegild.

He landed in Rhamnus, rolled over, and Karan was standing over him!

He landed in Canua, walked to the church, and they’d put him in a litter and taken him right to Henri!

_Where was Hector???_

He began to worry that the sea-god was trying to teach him some awful lesson. 

Finally he dozed off, and got enough sleep that he wasn’t a snapping animal come daybreak. In the morning, he was summoned, fed with a marked lack of ceremony, given a letter by Picquigny to take back to the Queen. They gave him a fresh mount to gallop back on. 

Moodily, Achilles took the letter and put it in his satchel. He and Picquigny took their leave of one another with cool gazes of mutual animosity, and Achilles set out on his journey back to the Chateau de Vincennes.

Now he had nothing to go on. Hector was not the king, was not near the king, was not a prisoner, advisor, guest, or friend of the king… truly, Achilles was lost, and fearful. What if his Hector was in some horrific fix, waiting for his angel to come…? His stomach fairly lurched at the thought.


	7. Paris

By the time a week had passed, Achilles had passed from anxiety to simmering anger. He could not find Hector. He used the delivery of the letter to the Queen (not that he saw or spoke to her, but to one of her advisors) to gain at least some temporary access to the chateau, but there was no Hector there.

He stood in the nave of Our Lady, concentrating on turning invisible and then standing in pilgrims’ paths to see if it worked, but they sidled around him with a glance askance. 

He stalked every priest, cardinal, bishop, and monk he saw until he got a good look at their faces. No Hector.

Eudorus also had not returned. “Gone to Touraine,” he was told, and he spent an afternoon searching maps until he found Touraine, just in case he needed to know.

Eventually, as more weeks passed, Achilles turned to other activities, hoping that if he established himself here, when he did find his Hector, it would be more convenient, perhaps. He bought a stone villa with a small front yard behind an iron gate, so shady and leafy with trees that the grass beneath them did not grow. It was as close to the Chateau de Vincennes as he could find. He hired a cook, a majordomo, a valet, and a maid, and set up housekeeping. 

He found a tailor and ordered a wardrobe. The more wealthy and respectable he looked, the more doors opened. Clearly he needed doors opening.

He commissioned artisans to create a coat of arms for him, based on his sketch—a shield, and also several wall plaques, and a tapestry. That was actually engrossing to him, meeting with the artisan, showing him the sketch. Whether the fellow knew the design was a created one, it was hard to say. 

Achilles put it to him thus: the family’s design was just the blue lion. The wall and hyacinth had special meaning to him alone. The artisan nodded as if this made sense, and suggested some flourishes around the edges, and crossed swords at the bottom. Oh yes, he liked that.

He amused himself by having the design painted and stitched on every item that could conceivably bear it.

But the rest of the time, he was roaming along the Seine again, searching every face for his Hector.

Once he had an address established, he wrote to his mother, complaining of his lack of success. Presumably she could see the situation in her crystal ball, but now that she had an address to write back to, he hoped he would hear from her.

He sent her a large painting of their new coat of arms, to put in his room over his bed.

Two months passed. The King returned, and Achilles compulsively attended every service in Vincennes chapel, staring at the Royal Family. The two smaller children seemed not to be falling ill; perhaps the new Queen was not the poisoner. But she had her own child now, and it was a boy. If she wanted him to be king, the other two definitely stood in her way. But now that their father was home, it may be she dared not act.

The King never seemed to notice Achilles, or recognize him as the man who had delivered the letter of his son’s death. Of course, Achilles was more finely dressed now, and swinging folds of velvet with the best of them.

There was a ceremony for the prince, but the body was not in attendance. Virulent contagion, they claimed, and he was placed in a marble tomb in a crypt in a basilica nearby. But the memorial was a lavish one. His father looked appropriately pensive, but he did have three other boys now to console him. And he clearly doted on the new baby.

Achilles narrowed his eyes. There was something about this family that made him ruminate, but he could not say what it was.

He walked the path every day from his villa to the Royal Gardens, to Our Lady, to the Chateau, and back. It took him several hours, but he had little else to do. He now inspected every face that passed, and even bent to look at beggars closely, just in case.

He found the mass graves of the Champeaux, and lurked there, looking for what, he did not know.

He waited for his mother to write him back, and she did not.

One day a leaf fell in front of him as he walked, and it was yellow, like his hair, and he became aware that it was cold. He picked up the leaf and decided, with a hollow ache in his chest: Hector is not here.

Returning to his villa, Achilles wrote out instructions for his majordomo, and found a solicitor in town to witness, sign, file, and store his documents and deeds. He arranged for a solicitor to find him a tenant to rent his villa, and gave contact information in both Canua Cathedral and Greece.

Then he looked at the maps. He could travel by horse 7 or 8 days back to Canua to get to the water, or he could go north a day and a half. 

Achilles checked with the solicitor’s agent one more time to ascertain that his property was recordedly his, and arrangements for rental and paying the servants were firmly in place. He was not sure when or if he would be back, but again, he found himself no longer willing to leave no trace of himself behind. Perhaps Sir Achilles d’Arduina de Canua would come in handy later? Maybe he would be back sooner than he expected.

To leave without ever finding his Hector made him profoundly uneasy, but staying here, searching in loneliness day after day, brooding alone in the bed night after night, it was a misery. And why had his mother not written? Yes, he was distinctly uneasy.

He packed up his wardrobe in trunks, leaving them behind to be stored in the attic, and dressed in his original, simple knight’s tunic and leggings and cloak. Finally, he could stall no longer; Achilles left Paris in late autumn with one more thoughtful tour, one more admiring prowl through Our Lady, and then finally headed north, reins in one hand, compass in the other. He passed the night in Amiens at an inn, and left the next morning with only a cold look in the direction of Chateau Picquigny. He continued all day, until he reached the water. 

Once he’d sold the horse, Achilles walked to the shore of Oceanus Britannicus, as the map called it. He stood on the top of the white limestone cliffs, wind in his hair, and stared in awe. Once, he had lived in a world where no such sights were known of. The rim of the world was the horizon. The sea was the only sea, it was the middle of the world. He wished he could bring his Hector here to see this…which one would appreciate it most? Oh, Xander, for certain. Or Victor… if only he’d had the chance to know Victor enough to say. 

He stood for a long time, wondering if there would be no more Hectors. What happened to Henri was just exactly like what happened—according to legend—to Hyacinthus. Were they the beginning and the end? Had the sea-god sent him off on this wild search to keep him busy, and let him slowly discover the truth for himself?

Bowing his head, Achilles finally turned from the cliff and walked until he found a path down to the beach. When sunset came, he took off the boots, trousers, and cloak, belt, purse, satchel, winebag, and dagger, and laid them in a grassy area close to the cliffs. Some beggar might have use of them. Then he walked to the water’s edge in his tunic—it was cold! But he went in to his knees.

 _Take me home,_ he thought, and waited for the familiar path to smooth itself in the water, so that he could sink in and be gone from this place. He was giving up. Hector was not here. Maybe, Hector was not anywhere.

After a few minutes, however, it became clear that there was no path in the water, and Achilles’ feet were numb with cold. Scowling with discontent, he backed out and onto the sand again and looked up at the sky. Where was the sea-god? Where was his path home?

He paced on the sand, looking very much like the angry lion, and glared at the water. He tried again, wading in deeper, but just as before, there was no path, and it was COLD.

Achilles stomped out of the water and stood shivering on the sand. Now his level of unease was at palpitating levels.

There was no Hector here.

His mother had not written him back.

His grandfather was not attending to him—maybe that part was not his fault, though. Maybe the sea-god could not operate in these waters. Oh, he should have gone back to Canua, Achilles thought, simmering. 

But he was distinctly uneasy. Where was everyone?? His Eudorus had vanished, his family was silent, and he had no Hector. His stomach hurt.

Eventually, when his feet were dry, Achilles brushed off the sand and dressed, strapping his gear and cloak back on. Then he fished the map he’d rolled up from his satchel and determined that he was not interested in being on horseback for another two weeks. 

He would buy ship’s passage to Napoli. From there, it was familiar waters. Surely from there, his grandfather would bring him home.


	8. Home

When Achilles reached Napoli, the city was in the grips of a celebration of some religious holiday. He knew about Epiphany, but a query at the pier revealed that it was still a month away. Still, he had been marking time in his own way, and he knew: he had been eight months now without his Hector, and without contact from home.

He found a deserted bit of beach, and when the sun set, Achilles once again stripped away most of his gear and went to the water. 

Once again, he stood and stood until his feet were numb. No sea-god. No path. Shivering more with fright than cold, he retreated. He had convinced himself that the previous failure was because he was too far from his grandfather’s purview.

Now, he just feared he was alone in the world. He found a room to rent at an inn and the next day, bought a small boat of his own, and rather gingerly took it out onto the open water. To his relief, when he called down the wind to blow him south, it did. He still had his own powers. He could still get home. But he had a new appreciation for how much his mother and the sea-god had done for him until now. He was getting desperate to know, however, what had gone wrong, and why everything he knew was vanishing.

It took him another four days to get home, and when he finally drew up to his mother’s island, he found himself with stinging eyes.

_Mother,_ he called with his mind, almost afraid, but as he rounded the black rocks and made for the beach, he saw a single, solitary figure dressed in white, with long hair blowing, waiting for him. When his ship hit the sand, he jumped out and splashed through the ankle deep water to her. When she opened her arms, he saw her eyes looked as watery and overcome as his own, and he embraced her, crying as he had not done in many, many years.

He gathered her tight, relieved to bury his nose in the familiar scent of her hair and robe, and for a long time they clung to each other.

Finally, shakily, he drew back. “You didn’t write. I was afraid.”

She looked… odd. A bit distracted, a bit surprised, a bit conscious, a bit sad, all at once. “Oh,” she said vaguely, “you mustn’t worry about me.”

Achilles gave a watery sniff, and a rusty laugh, and turned to drag his boat up onto the sand. He pulled out what little luggage he had and threw it over his shoulder to carry up the steps.

“Did you get my coat of arms?” He asked.

“Yes, yes,” she smiled indulgently. “Very nice.”

He glanced around. “Where is Luke?”

She paused and looked out to sea. He waited. His smile faded. 

“He has left us for a while,” she finally said.

Achilles waited with a sinking stomach, hoping she did not mean what he thought she meant. But he could see in her eyes that she did.

“Left us?” He said with dread.

“You know… sometimes they leave us. They don’t want to, but they do—“ her face crumpled and suddenly she was wracked by silent heaves of grief, her arms outstretched as if searching for something to hold on to.

He dropped his bundle and wrapped her in his arms again, and she coughed out her awkward sobs on his shoulder for several minutes. He found his own silent tears running down to accompany hers.

“What happened?” He asked in a whisper.

“Oh. He just took the boat to one of the bigger islands to get us some more wine, and I don’t know. He didn’t come back, and he didn’t come back, and then the fisherman came and told me that there had been thieves, and sometimes someone gets killed, and it’s a great pity.”

Achilles closed his eyes in grief, feeling the loss of Luke nearly as keenly as she did. He squeezed her until she had control of herself again.

“I guess I lost track of time once he was gone. And I didn’t write. I am sorry. When Luke comes back, I will be better.”

He let her step back and looked cautiously in her face. “When he comes back?”

She nodded bravely, wiping her eyes. “He’ll come back one day. He’ll find me again. I just have to wait.”

Swallowing, nearly overcome, Achilles lifted his bundle again and they went up the steps to the citadel. 

The handmaids were happy to see him again. They came up to him shyly, for it must be admitted that they found him moody and unpredictable, but they were happy to see someone besides Thetis again, and they petted his arms, and smiled at him.

While they took his belongings to his room for him, he looked after them and then turned to his mother and asked for the first time ever, very quietly, “Do they have names?”

Thetis was still patting away the occasional tear. “No, why would they?”

Achilles smiled. “They’re people?”

“Oh no, they were wedding gifts from a cousin of mine.”

“Yes, but they were still people,” Achilles whispered.

“No, they were rabbits. It’s a long story. Are you hungry?”

Achilles looked back through the opening to his room at the handmaidens busily unpacking his clothes and then shook his head. Fine. They were rabbits.

“No, but some wine would be welcome.” 

When Achilles had settled in, and twilight came, they lit the fire in the courtyard and sat before it. 

“So, you cannot find him.” Thetis said composedly, hands on her knees.

“No. I searched everywhere.”

“Hm. Well. I did contact my father, twice, and both times he insisted that Hector is there, and is the King of France.”

“I saw the King of France many times: it’s not Hector,” Achilles assured her. “When was the last time you spoke to him, because I tried to come home, and he was not there for me.”

“Yes, I saw that! I saw it in the crystal, and I asked him why. He says,” and here she laid a hand on her son’s knee. “He says he did not take you because Hector is there. He is in France, and he did not want you to leave. He insists that Hector is there.”

Achilles gave her a long look, and then took a drink of wine. 

“Does your father ever deceive people, perhaps for a good reason, but… does he do that?” He asked carefully.

She smiled. “No.”

He gave her another look.

“No, I promise you. But it is true that he does not see things the way we do. He doesn’t see time like a line, and he doesn’t see people as they are at one moment.”

Achilles shook his head. “I don’t know what that means.”

Thetis toyed with the end of her braid. “I don’t either, in truth, but that was how he put it to me.”

Achilles put his chalice down and ran both hands over his long hair, pushing it back wearily. Then he leaned with his elbows on his knees. 

“My fear is then, that Hector is in danger and I cannot find him or help him.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “Shall we try to contact my father in the morning?”

He nodded hopefully. Then he reached over and took her hand. “Do you ask him about Luke?”

She straightened and gave him a proud look. “No. I will just wait. Would you like the girls to draw you a bath?”

He understood that she did not want to talk about Luke. “Yes. Tell them, and then show me where you put the coat of arms, and I’ll show you my compass.”

She stood and gave him a pat on the shoulder, then left to see about his bath.

Achilles stared into the fire. No Hector. No Luke. No answers. He felt something coming up inside him that he finally recognized as anger. He was angry. He didn’t like this new world.


	9. The Sea-God

In the first rays of dawn, Achilles and Thetis stood out on the uplands, a light fog floating over their heads, their ankles deep in dew-wet grass. They waited for the rays of direct light to break over the horizon. Achilles could see nothing, but his mother finally lifted her hands.

“There you are!” She said.

Achilles looked, and it did seem as though there was moisture swirling in that particular bit of fog over their heads.

“I know,” Thetis said.

Achilles listened, but he heard no words … he did think he could hear a slight uptick of wind blowing, although he didn’t feel wind blowing.

“Is he in danger?” Thetis asked, and Achilles realized their consultation had already begun.

“Why could my son not find him?”

Achilles stared at the spot in the fog that she was addressing. Yes, he could almost make out a face. Well, eyes, a nose, a mouth. Sort of.

“I see. Father. Where _exactly_ is he??” She sounded a bit exasperated, and Achilles was rather glad he was not the only one feeling this way. He saw no reason the sea-god had to be so mysterious. _Hector is on the Rue de la Gard in the white house across from the library,_ that was what he wanted to hear. _I will fly you through the air to him right now._

“And he’s gone,” she said irritably, dropping her hands. She sighed, and turned to him. “He says Hector is no longer in danger because of something you did, but that he is there, and he is not happy, and my father insists that Hector is the rightful King of France.”

Achilles looked at her speculatively. “What did he say when you asked where exactly?”

Thetis looked contemplative. “He said he’s to the southwest of where he should be, and he’s not where you think.”

Achilles turned in a full circle out of pure exasperation. “WHY does he not just say??”

Thetis smiled. “One thing a god will never admit is: _I don’t know.”_

Achilles snorted and fell into stillness. She watched him. After a moment, he withdrew himself from it.

“I think I need rest,” he told her quietly. “If Hector is not in danger, and I cannot find him or solve this riddle, perhaps I just need rest.”

Thetis nodded. “Perhaps we both do. Perhaps we all do.” She walked back toward the citadel and after a moment, he followed her.

“What do you mean?” 

She entered the garden and looked around. “I can put us all to sleep. You. Me. The handmaids. Even the horses. I can put us in a bubble of sleep and let time just pass us by. I’ve done it before,” she added.

“When?” Achilles demanded.

“Oh, sometimes when you were en route, before Luke came, I would do it.”

“En route?” He asked.

“You would be on your way to Hector, but there are many years when you are under the water. And before Luke, I would miss you. So I would just go to sleep. Like you slept when you fled Karan and Xander, remember? When they were fighting?”

“You’ve gone to sleep because you missed me?” Achilles asked, astounded.

She shrugged. “Just occasionally. Would you like to now?”

He thought about it. “Yes. Yes, let’s sleep.”

Thetis went to her rooms for a bit, and emerged with a very large bundle of roughly woven brown cloth. She held it in both arms, it was so bulky. Laying it down by the fire pit, she turned to her son.

“Get four chalices,” Then she went back for one more item: the blue clay pot. From it, she poured some into each of the four, and all four of them drank.

“Stoke up the fire,” she told the handmaids, who seemed to recognize the proceedings. But they built up the fire to roaring without any seeming misgivings. Then they retreated to their room.

When the fire was leaping, Thetis threw the cloth into it and stepped back. “You might want to go lie down.” She said. Smoke was rising from the burning cloth, and it was thick and white, and heavily scented. It billowed out in all directions, filling the courtyard and creeping in tendrils down the passages and into the chambers. Achilles felt the dizziness coming over him immediately. 

“What is that material?” He asked, blinking rapidly.

“Just cloth,” she said. “It’s what the cloth is soaked in that—oh, I must lie down. Go now,” she said faintly, and turned toward her rooms. The smoke billowed over her and Achilles couldn’t see her anymore.

He turned and stumbled toward his room, his head feeling increasingly disoriented, and the scent of the smoke was like a wonderful incense, but so thick! Amazing he didn’t need to cough, but—he fell into his bed, rolling his head to admire his coat of arms. She’d affixed it on the wall near the shield.

Oh he was dizzy. It was like being very drunk. Finally he closed his eyes and felt that magical sleep coming over him, the sleep of falling backward into the grey fog, like the fog over the island. Achilles felt as if he was falling from the sky toward the island, through clouds that were thick and white like the smoke, and from his vantage point in the sky, like a bird, he could see the flat blue ocean spreading out in tiny ripples everywhere around his mother’s island, but he was falling. Falling was not unpleasant though. He fell for a long time, and then the falling slowed, and the silence grew more profound… and he was just breathing. It was very peaceful. He just lay, breathing, and feeling the world spin beneath him.

It spun and spun and spun.

When Achilles awoke he was horribly thirsty, and staggered out of his room, pulling on his old tunic, feeling cross and rusty. His mother and the handmaids were already up and moving about as if it had been a normal night.

“There he is!” Thetis said when she saw him. “Give him water… it’s because you were so close to the smoke for so long.”

He drank the water down, and needed more, and drank that down as well. Then he dropped down to sit on the cushions with his mother.

“How do you feel?” She asked brightly. She looked wonderful.

He nodded blearily. He did feel rested. Looking around he saw that nothing had changed.

“That doesn’t kill the horses?”

Thetis gave him a quizzical look. “No. Why?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbled. Then he drank more water. 

“Ah, because they were Hector’s horses, that’s why you care,” she said.

Achilles rubbed his blurry eyes. He did feel relaxed, and a bit apathetic. But still he missed Hector.

“How long did we sleep?” He asked.

“About eight and a half years,” she said calmly, choosing a pear from the nearby bowl.

Achilles stared at her. “Eight years?? I thought you meant a few months!”

“Oh no, a few months I can do with potions and elixirs, but for years, I use the smoke,” she said calmly, cutting a pear into sections.

He rose up on his knees, staring her. “Mother. Eight years… Hector! Eight years, Mother! Hector!” He put his hand on his chest, trying to communicate to her that each Hector had a limited amount of time, and eight years was a very long time in human life.

She gazed over at him. “My father said he’s not in danger anymore. You did something that removed the danger, remember?”

He fell back in despair. “I still want to find him!”

“Are you sure?” She said, watching him closely. “You don’t want to let him go?”

Achilles got to his feet. “No,” he said shortly. He was definitely upset. “I’m going to go down and swim,” he said.

Thetis nodded innocently. “Have a good swim, my son.”

Achilles stalked to the steps and descended, his entire face involved in his scowl. Thetis followed quietly, peeking from the top of the stairs, and watched her son reach the beach, draw off his tunic, and throw it across the sand in barely contained fury.

“Oh I hope this works out,” she murmured to herself.

He went into the water and began swimming, not seeing the still, clear path that slowly formed for him. He rolled over on his back, spread out his arms, and then suddenly felt the coldness. She could see him react and draw back, looking in puzzlement at the water. Then suddenly his eyes widened, and the sea-god pulled him under.

Thetis watched for a moment, but he was gone.

She turned and went back to her pear. Achilles was on his way back to his Hector, and she had eight fewer years to wait for her Luke. That was cheering, anyway. Whatever happened, she had done exactly what her father told her to. So whatever happened, it was not her fault! 

But she certainly did hope, hope with all her heart, that it did work out.


	10. FRANCE! (again)

Achilles awoke beneath the chalky limestone cliffs, naked, cold, and in a perfectly vile mood. He crawled out of the water, turning to give it a look that should have made it boil. Then he turned back again and looked around. Fishermen. He sighed, grabbed a few pebbles, and began the process of transforming into a clothed gentleman again. By the leaves, it was autumn again.

The solicitor with the elegant office on the Seine was graying, and had the little round lunettes on his nose. He looked up when a handsome blond gentleman, dressed in modest but worthy outlay, entered his office that afternoon. The blond gentleman looked very familiar.

“Sir Achilles d’Arduina de Canua,” the fellow introduced himself. He looked a bit out of sorts, but he was polite.

“Yes!” The solicitor actually rose and held out his hand. “I thought it was you, Sir, if I may say, you haven’t aged a bit!”

His customer looked positively wry at that, but shook his hand and seated himself, and he began the process of unearthing Achilles’ paperwork and finances, and updating his Lordship on the condition of his villa, and the tenants—a respectable family, he’d be happy to know.

“I’ve sent you periodic letters to the address in Greece, but…?” The solicitor knew it wasn’t his place to chide, but he did want to make it clear he had not slacked in his responsibilities.

Achilles nodded. He just wanted the keys to his house back. “I don’t know how long I’ll be in town. I’ll use the spare bedroom; the tenants need not be dislodged.”

“Very good, sir,” his solicitor said, and it was not long before Achilles was on his way.

The majordomo was the same, but the others had been replaced. Achilles did not care. He met the family: the father was a landowner who was retrenching and had let out his estate to someone far richer, while he and his wife rented a house in town for far less. Daughter recently married.

They fussed a bit about having had no notice of his arrival, but he could assure them with blameless honesty that no one was more surprised than he to find himself in Paris today. Then he was in the spare room, soaking in a bath while the servants brought his trunks from the attic and reinstated his wardrobe.

By evening, Sir Achilles was ready to attend evening services at the Chateau de Vincennes and be brought up to date on the developments of the House of Capet. He sat in the back, staring at the Royal Family. 

The King was not present, having recently left on a campaign to the south of France. His Queen, however, was still in evidence, her hair looping down over the ears and sweeping up in the back beneath an elaborate headdress. The two little boys were tall now, and the older was married. His tiny child bride stood at his side with well-trained dignity. The younger was a gangly youth very much like the one Achilles had tried to heal, but with a bit of look in his eye that made Achilles think he probably bore watching. The baby was now a somber little man of eight. There were two small girls in the arms of their nurses, who could whisk them out if they grew restive during the service.

After the ceremonies had ended, and the congregation rose to see the Royal Family file out their side door and escape into the bowels of the Chateau, Achilles went looking for his Eudorus. When he couldn’t find him, and did not see any clergy he recognized, he turned to leave, and decided to inquire of one of the priests who stood near the exit, blessing the worshippers as they left.

“I am looking for a friend whom I haven’t seen in many years. I’ve been in Athens,” Achilles explained.

“Ah?” The sandy-haired young priest appeared ready to help.

“He was the Councilor to the King, Pierre de la Broce,” Achiles said.

He wasn’t prepared for the reaction. The young priest drew back from him as if Achilles had announced that he was Lucifer, come to collect souls. He glanced about and then shied away from him, retreating into his litter without another word. The entourage withdrew, leaving Achilles staring after them with the now familiar feeling of unease.

Achilles walked back along the river toward Our Lady in the twilight, mulling it over. He had to find Eudorus, he decided. He needed… he needed information! When he reached the Cathedral, about the same time as the litters who traveled the same path, he saw the priest who had fled from him entering the church. On impulse, Achilles followed him. Speeding up his steps, keeping an eye on the long black robes, he stalked the priest to the back of the cathedral and pounced before he could disappear into any of the private nooks and crannies of the church.

When the priest saw who was pushing him behind a pillar into a quiet niche, he almost let out a screech.

“Shhh…” Achilles warned him, and the look in those blue eyes must have been enough. “Now. _Speak._ Where is Pierre de la Broce?”

“Dead,” the priest replied instantly. “Hanged seven years ago for the murder of Prince Louis.”

Achilles let him go, mouth opening, his shoulders sagging in disbelief. Eudorus too?? _I hate France,_ he thought suddenly, irrationally. Then, blinking, he attended to the details.

“Murder of Prince Louis? That’s nonsense, he would not do such a thing.” Achilles said firmly.

The priest swallowed, pale eyes wide. “That is what he was arrested for. They went to his estate out in Touraine, and found him, and brought him here. They kept him in the tower for six months—“

Achilles looked grim at that. He knew about towers, and imprisonment, now.

“—Then finally they hanged him.”

“On what evidence?” Achilles demanded, his eyes turning pale.

“There was no trial,” the priest told him, and by his face, the story disturbed him too. “They just took him out one morning, and hanged him.”

Achilles turned away, fists clenched. After a moment, he went to one of the pews and just sat, leaning his elbows on his knees, reviewing what he knew. What had the sea-god told Thetis…

-He is the rightful King of France  
-He is not in danger now  
-Achilles did something that removed his danger  
-He is not where you think he is  
-He is southwest of where he should be

He sat, still as a statue, trying to understand. The priest, now that he had spilled what he knew, seemed less eager to run from him. Perhaps the aura of mystery about Achilles, and the story, drew him too. He hovered, and then glanced around and sat down next to the blond knight.

“You knew him well?” The priest asked quietly.

“In some ways,” Achilles murmured, still concentrating. “Was there ever another claimant to the throne? Someone who might have been king, other than Philip III?”

The priest looked shocked. “Certainly not.”

Achilles sighed and returned to brooding. Hector was not in danger now, because Achilles had done something that had removed his danger. What had Achilles done on his first visit? He thought now about the patterns, and how the sea-god had always before put him where he found his Hector easily. People took him straight to Hector.

The only person he’d been taken to was Philip III’s oldest son, Louis. The poisoned child. That was the only person he’d helped, and even that… he’d seemed to respond, but then Eudorus sent him off with that letter.

Eudorus didn’t tell Achilles the boy was dead, he just sent him off with the letter.

Surely his Eudorus neither poisoned that boy, nor let anyone else poison that boy.

The silence had grown long. The priest—who was rather a young one—was curious. 

“How do you know your friend didn’t kill the boy? He did look rather suspicious.”

Achilles sniffed and looked at him. “He wouldn’t. Suspicious how?”

“Well, he told everyone the boy died of a virulent contagious disease, but the Royal Physician later admitted the symptoms looked more like poison.”

Achilles shrugged and asked bitterly. “Did they inspect the body to see, before hanging an innocent man?”

“No, I don’t believe that tomb has ever been disturbed,” admitted the priest. “I suppose if it was an infection, your friend was innocent.”

“No, it was poison,” Achilles remarked thoughtfully.

“How do you now?” The priest asked, his eyes alight with morbid curiosity.

“I was there, I saw him. He was curled up in pain, holding his stomach, his skin was livid… it was poison, I assure you.” Achilles said without thinking.

The priest gaped at him. “You were there?!”

“Yes. He was recovering, and the Councilor was—he wanted the boy to live. That much I know for a fact.”

_That boy was the only person I helped,_ Achilles repeated to himself. _Then I took the letter…_ was there something in the letter that removed Hector from danger? The only thing in the letter was that the prince was dead. Suddenly he stood. 

“Where is the crypt? Where is the prince interred?”

Wide-eyed, the priest whispered “The Royal Basilica of Saint Denis… do you want to go there?”

Achilles looked down at him, just the barest hint of a smile starting to curve his mouth. “Do you want to take me?”

The priest looked around again. “It’s too late tonight. It’s not safe after dark. Come in the morning. Find me. I’ll be here. Ask for Père Michel.”


	11. Crypt

The next morning saw two litters, carrying Sir Achilles and Père Michel, arriving in style at the Basilica. They entered without any furtive air, the priest genuflected. Achilles lit a candle—using only his fingers, but no one was looking directly at him. They strolled about looking very respectable.

After a while, Père Michel led him back into the necropolis, as if to admire the effigies over the tombs. Several other worshippers were also come to pay respects to various departed heroes. When a moment arrived that they were alone, the priest snatched up a candle, guided his guest through an arched door, down a flight of steps, and into the less popular section of the crypt.

Once away from the stairs, under the building, it was quite dim. There were other stairwells leading down, and a bit of sunlight filtered in. It wasn’t black. But it wasn’t cheerful. They lit a torch that rested in a wall sconce, and carried it with them into the cavernous, echoing series of chambers.

“He’s down here,” Père Michel whispered. “They put him here initially because of the contagion, and even though they later decided it wasn’t that at all, they never moved him. I always found it odd.”

They moved amongst the simple marble tombs—no elegant effigies here, here was where the less beloved were deposited, apparently—and Père Michel paused a few times, muttering to himself, before he finally located the simple marble tomb, with heavy slab atop it, and a very plain inscription.

LOUIS OF FRANCE 1264-1276

Achilles inspected the inscription, nodded, and handed the torch to Père Michel. Then he grasped the heavy lid with the intent of sliding it aside.

“You’re opening it?” the priest gasped in horror.

Achilles paused and looked at him. “Why did you think we came?”

Père Michel could think of no answer to that. Achilles returned to tugging at the lid, his blond hair swinging forward as he maneuvered the lid aside, doing his best not to make any loud, scraping noises.

Père Michel held the torch in one hand, a linen handkerchief over his mouth with the other, preparing to be hit with the stench of eight year old corpse. He shrank back as Achilles rotated the lid such that the bottom slid one way and the top slid the other, and it lay crossways across the tomb.

Achilles held his hand out for the torch and brought it over the tomb, tipping it to cast its light on the contents.

“It’s empty,” he said.

Père Michel came forward instantly, still holding the cloth to his face as if he didn’t believe, but when he looked in, he removed it abruptly.

“My God,” he whispered, and crossed himself.

They held the torch low and peered in as if a child’s body could somehow be hidden in a corner, but it was not. The tomb, however, was not completely empty. There was a letter in the bottom, and Achilles took it up, sliding it into his satchel.

“Here,” he handed the torch back to Père Michel and slid the cover of the tomb back into place. “Let’s go,” he said, and strode toward the nearest stairwell, the shocked priest scampering behind him.

Achilles refused to let the other speak to him until they were out of the Basilica and walking in the gardens nearby, hidden amongst the high, flowering shrubbery.

“Why would someone steal his body?” Père Michel whispered frantically once they’d found a quiet place to consult.

Achilles drew the letter from his satchel. It was addressed to King Philip. Without any concern, he broke the seal—the priest was as shocked by that as by him opening the tomb—and read it.

_Philip,_

_Louis narrowly escaped death tonight; I am certain he was poisoned, I do not know for certain who did it but I fear I suspect the Queen. If she is ambitious, all the boys are in danger, but it may not be her. I cannot be sure. I will take Louis to a safe place and let the word be spread that he has died. I know you will find this, however, when you return. I am sorry to cause you pain, but I’m sure you will thank me one day for saving your oldest and most worthy son._

_-Pierre_

Without comment, he passed it over to Père Michel, who read it with trembling hands. 

“Oh God. Oh Lord. Our Father. He’s not dead! He’s not dead!”

Achilles still stood, pondering. “This makes no sense. If he’s not dead, why hang de la Broce?” He took the letter back and read it again, and then tucked it back into his satchel, brooding.

They paced about each other, mulling this over with cold hands and puzzled brains. Finally, the priest had a theory.

“Do you think it’s possible that de la Broce never told them? That he thought the prince would still be in danger if anyone knew he was alive?”

“And he died rather than reveal the prince’s whereabouts?” Achilles followed up on the thought. Was Eudorus noble enough to die to protect his king? Yes. Yes, he certainly was.

Now Achilles crossed his arms over his chest tensely, reliving that night. He stood by the bed. He looked down at the child. He thought _what an ugly child,_ he remembered thinking that. Big hands and feet—well, at 12 they are often awkward that way. Big nose. Big ears, again not uncommon at that age. The nose and ears reach maturity first. His skin spotty with youth and livid with poison, his hair and eyebrows shaved “to fight the fever.”

Achilles had healed him, and the boy had opened his eyes and looked at him. And he had not asked “who are you?” His eyes had been dark, very dark.

One hand to his mouth, Achilles paced the garden in agitation. 

That boy Louis… had been his Hector. He’d never seen Hector that young. Had not recognized in the poor, sick, shaven, livid, mottled face the features that would one day be the most beautiful in his world.

Dizzy, he stopped and leaned against a tree.

“Are you well?” Père Michel asked him.

Achilles turned to look at him. “You must not tell anyone this. Not now, not yet. Whoever tried to kill him would kill you too.”

Père Michel swallowed. “Where do you think he is now?”

Achilles stared more earnestly at him. “If you speak of this, you endanger his life.” 

Père Michel shut his mouth, suddenly aware that he was alone with a man who wanted a deadly secret kept. 

Just as the two regarded each other with terrible intensity, the church bells started ringing with deep, clamorous tones. First the distant bells of Our Lady, then the nearer bells of surrounding churches. Then the loud bells just behind them, of the Basilica. They rang and rang with no apparent cause, and without stopping.

Achilles turned and looked up at the tower. “What is this?”

He turned back to Père Michel, who had gone very white, and appeared to be counting the tolls. Finally, they stopped for a moment.

“Forty,” he whispered, and his eyes went to Achilles for a moment as if afraid to speak. But when he opened his mouth again, the bells started tolling again.

They listened, counting, again, Forty.

Achilles was feeling very highly strung right now, and he turned to the priest with the intent of wringing the information out of him. “What IS it??”

Père Michel shook his head. “I don’t know for sure, but the king is forty.”

Achilles spread his hands as if to prompt him with amazed incomprehension.

“I think the king may be dead.” Père Michel breathed. “He went on campaign, there has been fighting…”

Achilles turned and looked back up at the bell tower.

“And if he is, his eldest living son is king now,” the priest added.

Achilles turned back to him, eyes wide. He came to him and snatched his linen cloth that still hung from the priest’s fingers. Holding it up before him, he thought of sulfur, and Père Michel stood immobile, too frightened to move, as Achilles made his handkerchief go up in flames with his bare fingers. The warrior held the burning cloth between them, letting the flickering flames reflect in his blue eyes.

“You will burn like this cloth if you speak a word of this,” Achilles enunciated very clearly, staring into Père Michel’s white face.

Père Michel fainted and the warrior caught him and laid him down in the grass, fairly gently. But he was in a hurry now, and left him in the garden. He was on his way to his Eudorus’s estate in Touraine. Southwest of Paris.


	12. Overland

Touraine, Achilles ground his teeth to see, was three days on horseback. He stuffed the map back into his satchel and headed for his villa. Once inside, he wrote a letter, strapped on his sword, packed a few basic supplies, and retrieved his horse from the stable. The major domo was startled to see his mysterious master appear after a silence of eight and a half years, stay one night, and prepare to vanish again the next day.

“I’ll keep my keys, I may be back, but here is a letter for the solicitor if I do not return in one month,” Achilles instructed him.

In some ways he missed the days of leaving as empty-handed as he arrived, but there was a certain comfort in establishing oneself, and becoming a part of the community. Since Canua, it seemed as though it might be possible to link his lives together, somehow, via property and records. But it did slow one down, he admitted to himself.

Still, by noon he was on his horse and… he searched in his satchel and then cursed to realize he’d left his compass on his mother’s island. Well, he hadn’t left it, he’d been snatched by his trickster of a grandfather. Achilles gave a huff and set off on the main road west, galloping as long as his horse could stand it without strain, and slowing when he must. 

It was not an hour before Achilles realized he was being followed. Behind him on the dusty road, a rider in nondescript clothes hovered just far enough back not to draw attention. But when Achilles galloped, the rider galloped, and when Achilles slowed, the rider slowed. 

Simmering, he continued until a slight bend in the road took him behind a cluster of oak trees, and then he guided his steed off the road, hid him quickly, drew his sword and waited in the cool autumn air. 

His stalker came around the bend, saw the empty road ahead, and drew up his mount immediately. Achilles crouched lower, eyes intent. Whoever it was, they weren’t stupid.

“Sir, it’s me!” Cried a voice, after a moment.

Achilles straightened, a pout of confusion on his face. Who was _me?_

“Sir, I know where you are going and I can get you there faster! I grew up in Tours!”

Père Michel? Achilles came out from behind the tree. Yes indeed, Père Michel had divested himself of his black robes and cross, and was now dressed like a young gentleman of limited means and more curiosity than caution.

Irritated, Achilles swung his dangling sword back and forth for a moment, and contemplated sending this puppy to sleep, and his horse too.

Père Michel dismounted and came to him, although not too close, noting that Achilles had not sheathed his sword.

“You were worried I would tell someone! Well… if I’m with you, I’m not back there, telling anyone,” he pointed out eagerly. His sandy hair fell over his eyes and he brushed it back impatiently. “I can help you!”

The warrior tipped his head at Michel. How old was he… 26? 27?

“When Louis died—supposedly died—you could not have been more than 17. Why are you so interested in this?”

Michel shrugged. “My cousin was the tutor of his younger brother Philip. He knew Louis. He said once that Louis was a mystic, that he had visions, he saw things from other times, and other lands, and it made the family uneasy. The Queen disliked him intensely. She seemed to think he might have a vision about her.”

Achilles listened intently, eyes growing large, and his sword stopped swinging. “What kinds of visions?”

“Oh, wild stuff. Cities burning. Pirate ships. A magic island with a goddess on it. Once he described a Bishop being tortured to death in a tower, and the Queen sent him to his room in a fright. She thought he was possessed,” Michel looked fascinated. “And I’ll tell you something else…”

Achilles hardly dared breathe, staring at his companion.

“… if the Queen poisoned him, it wasn’t to make sure her son was king. It was just to make sure Louis wasn’t.” Michel finished significantly.

Chills ran all over Achilles, and he cursed himself up and down for not really looking at that pitiful child in the bed who lay gazing up at him with those dark, silent eyes. What had happened to him since that night?

“You say you can get me there faster,” he finally sheathed his sword. “How?”

Michel smiled, looking now not at all like a priest, but like a young man on an adventure. “We ride to Orleans, and then travel by river. The Loire will take us to the Vienne, which runs right to the castle of Chinon!”

Achilles regarded him suspiciously. “And you think the castle of Chinon is where they’ve hidden him?”

Michel’s pale eyes were glowing now. “The Coudray Keep. That’s the tower where you put people you don’t want anyone else to see.”

Sighing, Achilles turned to lead his horse away from the grass it was chomping and back onto the road. Another tower. He mounted and looked down at his new companion.

“Lead the way,” he gestured wearily.

They traveled till dusk and paid an innkeeper to let them sleep in a room full of other travelers on straw beds. Achilles could have afforded better, but he’d learned via his travels in France that the more money he displayed at local inns, the more times he had to draw his sword about a mile outside of town the next morning. Of course, he was not alone now, he reflected wryly in the dark. He had the fierce Père Michel to protect him, he thought with a snort, and rolled over in the straw.

The next day, they arrived in Orleans, and Achilles went straight to the river, looking for fishing boats. 

“No, we find a merchant ship,” Michel tried to tell him, but Achilles had no interest in slowly sailing down the Loire in a merchant ship. He stabled their horses and paid for their keep for a week, knowing that if they didn’t return, the horses would simply be confiscated and sold. Then he found a fisherman, bought his boat for a handsome sum, and threw in their gear. 

Michel was protesting all the way. “A merchant ship is faster! They have sails! You don’t have to row!”

Achilles smirked at him and said only, “You’d better sit down.” Then he leaned over, put his fingers in the water, and focused on the river before him.


	13. Coudray Keep

When their boat came ashore they were gazing up the hill at the ominous looking Chateau de Chinon. It was a large, blunt, fortress of stone, and only a few small windows here and there. It was definitely the perfect place to detain someone. Or protect them. Achilles and Michel stepped from the boat and Achilles simply walked up the hill to the main entrance. Michel was panicking.

“Are we just going to walk in and say, _Where is Prince Louis?_ ” Michel whispered as they approached. “Are we going to fight our way in? I have a sword, but I’m not very good at this, to be honest. I should have brought my robes. Clergymen are always let in. Shall we say we have a letter? What do we say?”

Achilles grasped the heavy iron ring on the massive wooden door and gave several aggressive knocks.

“Oh God,” Michel mumbled, crossed himself, and started praying.

The door opened, and it was not a servant. It was a burley man with a long shirt of chain mail over his tunic, and white smock of sorts with a red cross over the chain mail. And a sword in his hand.

“You’re not Etienne,” was all the man had time to say. 

“ _Sleep,_ ” Achilles explained, and caught the fellow when he crumpled, lowering him to the cold stone floor. Stepping over the prone form, Achilles drew his sword and pushed his way in. Michel came trembling after him, head swiveling wildly from side to side, his breath coming in little pants.

“Sir!” He pointed, and Achilles turned to see two more of these white-clad soldiers coming toward them with increasing speed.

“Stay back,” he said to Michel, who took good advice with more alacrity than humans usually do.

Turning, Achilles twirled his sword until it glittered like his eyes, and then came forward swinging with supernatural speed, sending the guards’ swords flying into the air. One broke when it landed.

He drew back his sword to run them through and hesitated. Suddenly Achilles realized: he didn’t know for sure if these men were his Hector's captors… or protectors. Or a bit of both. But if Eudorus had put him here—he grabbed one and dropped him into sleep, and then the other—if they were protectors, they should not be killed, he decided. 

If they were captors or torturers, they’d better be gone when Achilles came back through.

He turned again. They’d seen the tower from the outside, so it was clear what direction they were to go. Michel stuck so close to Achilles he nearly tripped him up as they crept through the oddly deserted rooms. They cut through what looked like a dining hall, and from thence into a stone corridor.

There, they surprised one more soldier who was walking toward the sounds of clattering swords, eating an apple and looking more irritated than alarmed until he saw Achilles, sword drawn. 

He reached for his sword but a cold, gleaming blade came gently up under his chin and lifted it. He looked into the most intense blue eyes he’d ever seen.

“Take me to Louis,” Achilles said simply.

The soldier dropped his hands—and the apple—but didn’t move. 

Achilles applied a bit of sharp pressure to the man’s throat. “Or I could cut off your head and keep searching myself,” he suggested meaningfully.

Still the soldier didn’t move. His eyes looked desperate but fatalistic. “Better that than betray the prince.”

Achilles hesitated. “It’s not betrayal. I’m here to rescue him.”

The soldier blinked at him. “We have already rescued him. That is why he is here, safe.”

Consideringly, Achilles withdrew the blade a bit, but only a bit. “Michel, take his sword,” he said. “We need to talk for a moment.”

Michel inched around and slid the soldier’s sword out of the scabbard, using both hands, and carried it back a few steps.

Achilles nudged the soldier toward a tall backed chair that sat against the wall by a narrow table near one of the narrow windows. “Sit.”

The soldier dropped into the chair, looking beyond him. “How many defenders of the prince have you killed to get this far?”

Achilles showed him the clean, gleaming blade of his sword. “Do you see any blood? I will injure no one who has a regard for Prince Louis, but I will see the prince myself.”

The soldier shook his head. “No one sees the prince but us.”

“By whose orders?” Achilles demanded immediately.

“By our own,” the soldier said, and reached up to draw a heavy chain from around his neck that fell behind his chainmail. At the end of it was a large cross. “The order of the Knights Templar has sworn to protect Louis Capet to the end of his days, however sorrowful it may be.”

Achilles nodded, not particularly concerned with the order the knights belonged to. “Very well. But he will want to see me, I assure you. Tell him Achilles is here. Tell him… the one who healed him from the poison is here.”

But the knight shook his head. “You don’t understand. He does not give the orders. He is not fit to give orders.”

Michel finally spoke up. “You think he’s mad,” he realized. “You protect him from being murdered by those who don’t want a mad king, but you keep him here because you believe that he is, in fact, mad.”

The knight made no answer, only lowered his eyes solemnly for a moment, and it was clear that Michel had deduced correctly.

Achilles looked behind them to ensure no knights were creeping up to “protect” his Hector, and he sheathed his sword. He took up the candelabra that stood on the table with five unlit candles.

“Has he spoken of an angel with yellow hair who can start fires?” Achilles asked casually, pinching one candle to life. The knight’s eyes widened.

“Has he spoken of cities behind walls, in flames?” He lit the next candle. “Pirate ships with black sails?” He lit the third. “An island of a goddess with long, gray hair? A Bishop that got cut into pieces and put in boxes?” He lit the last two and looked at the Knight, who had inhaled until he could inhale no more, but could not remember how to exhale for several seconds.

Achilles waited for him to deflate.

“Has it occurred to you that he is not mad at all?” Achilles asked, a little smile on his face.

The knight sat unmoving. He was clearly out of his depth.

Achilles stepped back and turned to continue down the stone passage way. There was light at the end; it must be the courtyard in which sat the tower. 

“Let’s go.”

“No,” the knight said, staying where they’d sat him. “I don’t understand this, but my orders are clear. You may kill me. But you will not be able to open the door to that tower, and I will not let you near him. This may all be a trick by the devil, or the Queen, or I know not whom.”

The knight stood, and Achilles realized that Père Michel was in no way going to be able to retain that sword. The knight snatched it from his hand and put it to the hapless priest’s throat. Michel stiffened, eyes wide, and made no sound.

“If you continue, I must dispatch your companion.”

Gritting his teeth, Achilles came back, candelabra in one hand, the other upraised in surrender. 

“Very well,” he smiled charmingly. “You are a faithful protector, I can see that.” He reached the knight and touched his face. “Sleep.” 

They settled him in the chair. 

Achilles turned again, but Père Michel was searching the sleeping knight with quick hands. After a moment, he held up a ring of heavy iron keys with a bright smile on his face.

Achilles nodded approvingly. He had intended to simply rip the door off its hinges, but this would do just as well. 

Now he turned and moved faster. Enough with explanations and persuasions. He proceeded down the hall, feeling his body heat up. His Hector was here, it was certain, he could feel it. Into the courtyard he went, looking up at the stone tower. Door, where was the door… He located it and snatched the keys from Michel, and the door groaned open. Before him was a set of stairs and at the top, another door, and beyond that door, his Hector.

It suddenly occurred to him that he did not fancy Père Michel a gaping witness to his reunion with his beloved. He stopped and turned to the eager helper at his side.

“I’m sorry.” He said, “But you must _sleep._ ”


	14. Chapter 14

Achilles unlocked the door at the top of the steps and pushed it open, his heart thudding. Inside was a sizeable chamber, a bit larger than Hermenegild’s prison, and far more comfortably appointed. The four poster bed was thickly padded and luxurious, with heavy velvet curtains. The desk and chairs elaborately designed and of shining wood. There were shelves affixed to the wall, with books. Thick rugs covered the stone floors. The remains of a meal were on the table by the door.

The warrior stepped in and looked around quickly, eyes searching for his beloved. Finally, in a dim corner he saw him, a pale young man in dark clothes, who had apparently hidden when he perceived that the door was being opened by a stranger.

Louis stepped forward, Achilles turned, and they both froze, regarding each other.

Achilles felt a shiver run through him. Yes, this was the poor homely boy, who had grown into his nose and ears, and was a tall young man now. His curly head seemed large on his long neck, and the sloping shoulders were wide, but not full. His beard was coming in. His eyes were large and round under his black brows. His lower lip was a pink pout. He was Hector, but still… painfully young.

“Do you know me?” Achilles asked quietly, his own eyes every bit was wide.

“Yes.” Louis said shortly, and then carefully went past him to his desk, his fingers absently touching the books, the quills, the parchment there. His eyes wandered about the room and then came back to Achilles. “You healed me. Then you left me. I thought you were coming back but you never did.”

Achilles took a step toward him, but Louis turned his face directly at him in a manner that seemed more confrontational than affectionate. He halted.

“They told me you died,” Achilles said softly.

“You healed me. You saw with your own eyes that I was better, how could I die,” Louis said quickly, and his angel could see now, this was an angry young man. Not that he blamed him.

“How long have you been in this tower?” He asked, dreading the answer.

Louis glanced around him, lips tight, and gave a slight shrug. “Here, probably, three years. The one before, only a year. There was a nice one in the woods I liked, that was the first one. They let me go outside when I was young. But once I got big enough to run away, no more outside.”

Achilles noted that his skin was indeed very pale. He held his hand out invitingly, blue eyes full of hope.

“Do you wish to go outside now?”

Louis looked long at the hand, and then at Achilles. “Did you bring an army?”

Achilles smiled. “I brought Père Michel,” he offered jokingly, but his young Hector did not look amused.

“Did you come alone? We just ride out of here on horseback, alone?” Louis asked cuttingly.

Achilles lowered his hand, not entirely certain what was unfolding. Louis looked away and seemed to be staring at something only he could see. Suddenly he lifted both hands and closed his eyes as if in pain. “No, no, no, no, stop it. Stop it. Stop it. I don’t want to copy it, take it away.”

Then he turned away, shaking his head, and put his hands over his ears, muttering. Finally, he seemed to gain control of himself and turned back.

“So you have no army. You haven’t come to help me be reinstated in my rightful position, you’ve simply come to move me to a different prison.” 

Achilles was silent for a moment, eyes moving rapidly over his beloved, trying to assess his state of mind.

“Why did my father never come for me?” Louis asked, again, very rapidly. His eyes were hurt, and blinking rapidly as if his head ached. He stared at Achilles again.

Achilles looked behind him at the open door. He’d feel better when they were both out of this tower and away somewhere safe.

“Let me take you out of here,” he urged. 

Louis looked around at the room. “All my things are here. Some of my things are on the island but then they aren’t because they are not mine. They are mine, but they are not mine-mine. But they are on the island. Except the ship, the ship sank, the ship sank over a hundred years ago.”

Achilles nodded to himself. He understood completely now, why they thought his Hector was mad. Achilles understood everything he said, but who else would? His eyes stung a bit.

“Wouldn’t you like to go outside?” He asked. “Just for a while? The sun is shining.”

Louis gazed at him again, and Achilles held out his hand. “Let’s just go into the courtyard,” he suggested. “Let’s talk about your father.”

His Hector came forward hesitantly, and then took his hand, letting Achilles lead him out of the door and down the winding stone steps. At the bottom, Père Michel was dozing in the grass.

Louis stood over him for a moment. “His father was a merchant, he sold gems but it wasn’t in France, it was in another country and it was a long time ago. The beaches were white.” He moved past him and stood in the courtyard, lifting his face to the sun. “Oh,” he breathed, closing his eyes.

Achilles was trembling behind him, uncertain what to do for one of the few times in his life. The small courtyard was not landscaped or cultivated. There were no flowers or walkways. It was just green grass. But Louis stood in the middle of it, soaking up the sun, as if it was paradise.

Suddenly, Louis opened his eyes and looked at the roof of the castle. “Fire!” He cried. “Fire! Fire! They’re burning it all! They’re burning it all!” He took a few running stops toward his vision, and Achilles grabbed him, holding him back. Louis struggled, and turned his pleading eyes to Achilles. “We have to go back!”

Achilles checked quickly to make sure there was no fire, and then turned back to his beloved, eyes wide with alarm now.

“There’s no fire anymore.”

Louis put his hands to his eyes and took them away, staring. Then he took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, you’re right. It’s gone now. So…” He pulled carefully back from Achilles and stood, wavering. “Why did my father not come for me?”

Achilles released him, eyeing him closely, and then reached into his satchel and withdrew Pierre’s letter, handing it over. “He never knew,” he said. “This was sealed inside your empty tomb.”

Louis read it in silence and then looked up. “So he never opened the tomb. He just left it there in the crypt of the Basilica. He never even looked.”

Achilles didn’t know what to say. 

“Pierre said… he would surely investigate. He said it would… only be a few weeks before my father uncovered it all and sent for me. But months went by. Then one day the soldiers came for Pierre, and we thought it had begun, but they took Pierre away and I never saw him again.”

Louis looked around the courtyard, dark eyes haunted. “Pierre was a good man. I used to be afraid of him. I thought he was the boatman. When I was little he’d come to see my father and I would start crying because I thought he was the boatman come to take me to the underworld, because of his eyes, but then I realized he was a good man.”

Achilles listened, amazed. He could only imagine what the people around him must have thought of such babble. 

“But do you remember me?” He asked longingly.

“Yes.” Louis said again, eyes running briefly over his face, and then sliding away.

That was not encouraging. “What do you remember?”

Louis looked back at him. “I can’t explain. I see you, but there are so many of you, all blurring together, and some are good and loving and some are dangerous and wild and I can see them all at the same time on top of each other and they are all looking at me like you are doing now, stop, stop, stop.” He put his hands over his eyes.

“Alright,” Achilles said, heartsick. He came and put his hands gently on Louis’ shoulders. “Let’s just get you out of here. Sleep.”


	15. Tours

The fishing boat bobbed gently in the Loire, under the shade of a massive willow tree whose branches curved over to let the long green tendrils dip in the water. Achilles kept the oars at hand, in case he needed to use them to maintain their position. He didn’t want to pull up on shore, nor drift with the current. He wanted to wait until his two sleeping beauties awoke.

Michel awoke first, coming up slowly, stretching, and then snapping to full attention abruptly. He sat up, saw Achilles, opened his mouth, and then realized there was another body reclining in the boat at his side. He turned, hands up in front of him as if afraid to touch anything, and stared at Louis, who looked like a black-haired Adonis in sleep.

“Is that him??” Michel stared at Achilles, and then back to Louis again. “The prince? The king??”

Achilles raised a warning hand. “Shh… don’t call him the king. I don’t think he can ever be the king.”

“Why, you said he wasn’t mad, you said his visions were real!” Michel protested in a whisper.

“They are,” the warrior said sadly. “But he can’t control them, and he can’t tell what is now and what is long ago.”

Michel sat, mouth open. “Oh… oh that is tragic!” There was a moment of silence. “Can he see the future?”

Achilles shook his head.

Michel looked narrowly at him. “Can you?”

Achilles gave a weary huff of a laugh. “I used to think so. Now… no.”

The young priest gazed down at the sleeping prince again. “Where are we taking him?”

Achilles rested his elbows on his knees, “I am not sure. Once again, I acted without thinking. All I knew was that I wanted him out of that tower, someplace where he can be in the sunshine—“ he broke off, feeling emotions rising. He schooled his face into sternness. That was the most he’d explained himself to anyone in a long time. He wished he was close to his mother’s island, but he already knew, now, what a journey that was.

Michel looked around. “Where are we?” The view from under the willow tree was a bit limited.

The warrior inhaled deeply and looked at him. “Tours. You said you grew up here. I thought you might have a family home, some place we can hide for a bit. I need to be able to talk to him, to understand his mind.”

The young priest nodded slowly. “Yes, my family home is here. My parents are in Paris, so the house is mostly closed up... Only the barest staff… maybe one of my brothers—“

“Sounds perfect,” Achilles said. “Guide me,” he added, reaching into the water again.

They moved up river to where a smaller river separated on the south side of the Loire, angling due east, and moved until they came upon a vast stretch of open country, with small blue flowers so thick the land looked more blue than green.

“ _Gentiane des neiges,_ ” Michel commented. “They bloom in fall.”

Louis awoke and sat up slowly in the boat, looking around him confusedly. “Where are we?”

Achilles regarded him with soft eyes. “Tours, on the Loire.” 

Michel looked as if he didn’t know what to do with himself, in a little fishing boat with the visionary, not-really-dead, somewhat mad, rightful King of France, and his sword-fighting, fire-starting, river-controlling angel. If he’d turned to see Jesus walking across the water toward him, he could not be much more stultified than he was already.

“There! My family’s estate.” He pointed to a villa on a gently rising hill in the very midst of the blue flowers. “There’s a road on the other side leading to town… see the line of trees? That’s the road—“ he felt he was babbling now, and fell silent.

Achilles brought the boat up against the embankment and Michel clambered out. Then he turned and held out his hand to Louis, who took it and stepped out as well. Michel paused for a moment, staring at his own hand, obviously thinking “I just touched the King of France!”

Behind him, Achilles got out of the boat without prompting the young priest to any more such seizures of significance.

Louis hesitated, looking back up the river. “We left everything I own at the Keep,” he said.

“Yes,” Achilles assured him. “But if you wish, I will go back and retrieve anything you tell me to.” Then he reached out and put a gentle hand on his beloved’s back, urging him to follow Michel up the gently rising hill of blue flowers toward the villa.

Louis went passively enough, his large dark eyes turning this way and that, gazing at the flowers. “I like these better than the yellow ones. There’s something doomed and painful about the yellow ones. My step-mother had a bouquet of the yellow ones in her quarters once. I told her they made me think of death and she got very angry with me. It was just before—“ he broke off for a moment, stopping to pick a single blue flower and inspect it. It had five pointed petals, and was very delicate.

He turned to see the other two had stopped as well, regarding him with a curious mixture of respect and pity. He gazed back at them neutrally, holding the flower to his chest, and then brightened, looking beyond them. 

“Ah, I love horses. I have missed horses!” He said fondly, gazing across the field.

Achilles and Michel both turned to look. There were no horses there. 

Michel, eyes wide, started walking again and they followed, approaching the villa from the back. A man saw them from the window and came out to confront the trespassers, only to brighten when Michel waved his hand wildly at him.

“My older brother,” he said, and cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted. “Remy!!”

The three men emerged from the field and came through a small but well-maintained garden consisting mostly of high, thick shrubbery cut into paths. Then they were entering the central hall of the villa, where Michel was greeted by his brother, who looked a little startled to see his baby brother coming up from the river with strangers at this time of the year.

“Remy, I am so glad to be home. We’ve just traveled from… Touraine, and we are exhausted. Can you have them make up the blue rooms for my friends? This is—“

“Sir Achilles d’Arduina de Canua,” the warrior said, still enjoying how it rolled off his tongue.

Then Achilles turned to introduce Louis and both he and Michel froze. 

“Louis Arpad,” the young prince said quietly, still holding his blue flower. “of Courteney.”

Achilles and Michel looked at each other, hoping the lucidity held until they could be settled in their rooms to recover from their journey. 

“They are very tired,” Michel said abruptly. “I’ll take them to the library and they can rest while the rooms are made up. I—I need to speak with you, Remy.”

Achilles gave him a warning look, and Michel nodded obediently. In a moment, Achilles and his Hector were in a small but well appointed library, with a map on the wall. 

The door closed behind them. Louis turned to Achilles.

“You aren’t here to help me regain my throne. I suppose I knew years ago, when you never came for me, that it was over.” His dark eyes were so steady, it was shocking to see the adult mingling with the last traces of roundness in his cheeks.

Achilles sat down with a sigh. He didn’t know what to say.

Louis continued. “I know what kind of shock and upset it would cause for the people of France to learn the truth. We could end up going to war with the House of Reginar.” 

He finally put the flower down, placing it carefully on the table under the library’s single window. It was stained blue and red, and Achilles thought his young Hector was like a marble statue in front of it, with his white hands and face and downcast eyes.

“For years, though, I fantasized that my father loved me, and he would come, or that my angel would bring me to him, and we would be reunited. But neither of you ever came.”

Achilles leaned forward, eyes fixed on his beloved. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know you when I saw you—“

“Then why did you heal me?” Louis asked him, pain and anger still in his eyes.

“You were just a suffering child and I wanted to help.” Achilles said.

Louis turned away. “I thought you were there for me and me alone. I thought you looked into my eyes, and I thought… that you were my angel. But it could have been anyone in that bed, and you would have done the same.”

“You would admire me more if I’d turn away and let them suffer because they were not you?” Achilles was feeling a bit defensive.

“That is not what I mean.” Louis said, and then moved closer to the window, the blue and red diamonds casting a glow on his face. “I mean… I thought I was more important than I am.”

“No, you are of paramount importance to me, that is why I came to the tower to get you.”

Louis looked at him. “If I’m not to be king, why would I be important?”

Achilles came toward him carefully. He wasn’t certain how to inform this young man that his importance to his angel was purely romantic. Those black eyebrows were sitting very straight over the hurt brown eyes, and he did not look like he would be flattered at all to learn such a thing.

“Are only kings deserving of happiness?” Achilles asked, eyes more pleading than he was aware of.

Louis looked past him, up at the map on the wall. Then he stepped to it and lifted his fingers, running them along imaginary strings. But then he tried to grasp them, and there was nothing there.

“But you can see them, can’t you?” He asked, brows crimping.

Achilles felt tears coming up, and tried blinking them back. He’d wanted a Hector who remembered, but this… this was not how he imagined it.

“I can remember them,” he said, and lifted his hand to point. “Here, and here…”

They stood looking at the map together. Then the door opened, and Michel gestured for them to follow him up to the rooms he’d arranged for them.

When Louis went into his room, he looked around it quietly, and then turned to them. “I’d like to rest,” he said.

Achilles nodded and backed out, turning to go to his own room and stretch out for a bit as well. He turned and got one last glimpse of his young Hector standing by the bed, his head rather forward, his eyes large and sad—looking at him. Then the door closed and Achilles went to his room, wondering what exactly to do.

Even if Louis was not mad, exactly, he was certainly compromised by these confusing and overlapping memories in his head. And, the warrior suspected, it was entirely possible that his father had not been sorry his strange, unsettling heir had been taken away.

Achilles flopped on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The worst of it was, Achilles was certain that his Hector was beginning to remember _because of Achilles._ Having that one familiar entity come into his life and take it over again and again and again had finally had the desired effect: he was starting to remember Achilles. But remembering Achilles meant other memories came with it, and now, Hector looked around the world seeing multiple worlds all at once.

Had Achilles not interfered with his life, Louis might have been able to be the stable, wise King that Hector had been as Aeneas. 

_Or_ he could have simply been poisoned by his step-mother either way, he reminded himself. Oh, he was tired. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Achilles woke some hours later, aware that it was dark, and someone was beating on his door. Irritably, he rolled out of the bed, his hair wild about his face, and yanked open the door.

Michel stood in the passageway, twisting his hands together, a stricken look on his face.

“He’s gone. Louis is gone. I don’t know where, I don’t know when, I was in the front with Remy, I thought he was in his room asleep but he is gone!”


	16. Au Revoir

If Achilles had thought he was worried for his Hector before, it was nothing compared to his horror now at the thought that his Hector was now alone in the world, hallucinating, utterly vulnerable, and if anyone discovered his identity, his chances were high of being murdered, or kidnapped and sold to political enemies, or held for ransom from a family that had already tried to kill him once.

And he was so young! He was a Patroclus, and Achilles clutched his stomach at the thought of it.

They’d searched the house, obviously, but Louis was not there, and no one had seen him leave. Moreover, it was a new moon and the night was black as velvet—there was no searching outside until morning.

Achilles spent the night in his room, wild with worry. At first he tried mentally calling to his Hector to come back. Then suddenly, it occurred to him that if Louis could feel the summons, as Henri always had, but it was not in his power to return, the call would just be causing him anguish.

_I should have tied him to the bed,_ Achilles thought, eyes burning in the night. It was a long, agonizing night. 

With the first light of dawn he was out of the villa, running through the path their feet had tramped in the blue flowers. Yes, the boat was gone. That was their first clue.

Achilles did everything but gnash his teeth and tear out his hair. And his Louis had no money! No weapons! He was as helpless as a baby rabbit, in his angel’s estimation. They spent two days searching the area, and although no one said it, they were looking for a body.

Finally, it occurred to the warrior that his grandfather had not wanted him to leave France as long as his Hector was there. He remembered going to the water, expecting the channel to open for him, and it had not. Yet, in every past incarnation, when his beloved was gone, he went to the water, and the path opened.

Therefore, it stood to reason, that if Achilles went to the water, and no path appeared, that was at least a sign that his Hector was here, and alive. He lingered in Tours for a while longer, hating to leave the only place he’d seen his beloved, but… what if Louis had gone to Paris to confront his family?

Achilles groaned at the thought. He probably didn’t know his father was dead. Indeed, they had not even been certain, till a missive arrived at the villa for Remy, and he had told them in shocked tones: Philip III was no more. His seventeen year old son, Philip IV, was now king.

Might Louis simply go straight to the palace, alone and empty-handed, and present himself? Like Xander, but into a nest of poison and intrigue?

At length, Achilles and Michel returned to Paris. Michel donned his robes and claimed a terrible fever had waylaid him at the house of a friend. Achilles returned to his villa south of the Seine, and once again, prowled Paris in search of his Hector.

But now, at least, he had the comfort of going every day to the river and standing at its edge, waiting to see if a channel would form. If no channel formed, he told himself, Louis was still alive, and in France. 

He attended every service at the Chateau de Vincennes, watching the Royal Family with cold eyes. But he saw no hint, in the widowed Queen’s blank demeanor, or the new young king’s icy calm, that their dead heir had returned from the grave to haunt them.

In the new year, Philip IV was crowned, officially. Achilles stayed in the area, certain that if Louis were going to confront his family, this would be the time. But nothing happened.

Gradually, Achilles grew silent and dull-eyed. He went through his routine of searching for his love, and checking the river, with the aching misery of chronic pain. And then, just when he thought his heart could not hurt any more, one day in February, he went to the river, not expecting any change, and to his shock, the channel formed, smooth and shining and unmistakable, at his feet.

Gasping, he stepped back, his face falling into lines of grief. Louis had never even had a chance, and all because Achilles had not recognized that poor, shaven child on the bed.

Sickened, he went back to his villa, packed up his trunks, and ordered them sent to his mother’s island. Then he went to the solicitor and with dreary patience, drew up the paperwork placing the property on the market, and directing the proceeds to the Cathedral of Canua. _Why not,_ he thought dully. That town had been good to Achilles and Henri. Paris had not been good to Louis. 

When his affairs were in order, Achilles went back to the river. He was at least grateful not to have to travel by horseback to leave France. He waited till sunset and found a quiet spot in the river, and left his clothes on the shore. He glanced around and said one last resentful goodbye to France, 1286. Then he stepped into the cold channel, drew in his breath, and sank under the water. 

Achilles didn’t know if he would wake up on his mother’s island, or in some new place. He didn’t know anything. He felt less prepared than ever before. But he couldn’t abandon his Hector now: he’d made him into something other humans could not love. It was his responsibility. And he missed his lover, oh how he missed him. His arms ached at night. The cold water was a relief.


	17. A New Shore

Achilles woke up on an uncomfortably pebbly shore, but at least it was warm again. It was night, which was unusual. He lifted his head and wiped the sand from his face, looking around him. 

Before him, up the beach, was a stone wall, very high, with a crenulated top. Torches burned along the wall, and some at the base as well. Looking either way up and down the shore, he saw the occasional campfire. The moon was out as well, and he had no difficulty seeing his surroundings. It was easy to see this was a fortified city preparing to be attacked.

After a moment, Achilles rose and grimaced. He was covered with sand. He stepped into the water to rinse himself off, and plunged under to clean the mess from his hair. No point strolling around looking like something the cat tried to cover up.

When he felt clean again, Achilles walked up onto the shore, stepping carefully. Pebbles. Easy money, though, he thought, scooping up a couple of them and pressing them into gold. Then he made for the nearest campfire.

When he drew close, he saw it wasn’t a true campfire. That is to say, there was no camp; there was just fire. Two figures stood at it, and for a moment, Achilles thought they were women, as their gowns reached their ankles. But as he drew closer, he saw they were bearded men in tunics. Tunics, however, had grown to such a length, it seemed pointless to call them tunics any longer. They were gray, but with colorful sashes wrapped around their waists. Dark cloaks with long sleeves covered their backs, and their heads were wrapped in cloth as well.

Unconcerned with his nudity, Achilles approached, wondering what language to try. The men turned to look at him and he smiled. Both their jaws dropped, and they looked at each other in reaction. Then one whipped off his cloak and offered it politely to Achilles. That was a nice change, he thought, bowing his thanks and wrapping it around himself. The other quickly donated his sash to secure it. He offered his gold, but they waved it away with what almost looked like embarrassment.

Just as Achilles was opening his mouth to try a little Latin, one said in perfectly understandable French,

“I’m sorry we have no shoes to offer. The walk to the base will be unpleasant without them.”

Achilles blinked at him.

The other said, “Wait, I’ll go to the next post and get a pair from them. They’re here till morning anyway.”

Then he turned and sprinted up the beach toward the next campfire.

The warrior cocked his head in puzzlement. This was more welcome than he’d ever received, other than from Karan. He turned to the remaining citizen, who was staring at his long, golden hair as if transfixed.

“Where are we?” He asked.

“Acre,” the fellow answered instantly. 

Achilles tried to think of where in France that was. “Near Lyons?” He asked.

The fellow gave him a startled look. “No,” he said politely. “It’s closer to Haifa.”

Achilles stared into the fire. Haifa. Haifa. He shook his head.

“North of Jerusalem,” his companion clarified delicately.

“Oh…” was all Achilles could think of to say. Well. He looked around. Very far from France, then. Of course, it didn’t explain why he’d found French speakers hovering around campfires on the shore of the Holy Land, but he did seem to remember speaking casually of Crusades on his journey through France. It must still be going on. He was a little jealous. Jesus had a wingspan that left Apollo far behind.

He remembered in Gades, worrying that his Hector might have been Jesus and smiled. Now that would have been something. But his mother had said no, and to let it go… he wondered if she were capable of lying to him, and his eyes narrowed.

After a moment, the figure of their erstwhile companion returned to the glow of the fire with a pair of sandals that he offered with both hands, his eyes searching Achilles’ face with deep interest.

“When you are ready,” the first one said, laying a gentle hand on Achilles’ shoulder.

Curious now, Achilles slipped the sandals on and laced them up quickly, and then rose. The second one held up his hand to pause them, and then respectfully lifted the hood on the cloak to cover Achilles’ hair. Achilles held still and let him, although his eyes followed his movements suspiciously. Then the two robed figures abandoned their fire without a second look and led him quietly along the wall down the beach. Their occasional furtive glances around solidified his assessment that this was a city preparing for siege.

After a few minutes, they reached a massive wooden gate, very like the gates of Troy. It was open, but heavily guarded by knights in the long white smocks with red crosses that Achilles remembered well from the castle of Chinon. His companions consulted with the guards in whispers. The guards startled, peered at Achilles, and whispered to other guards. Those guards took a few steps forward, looked at Achilles, and went back and whispered to other guards.

Achilles watched as word spread amongst the knights, who all seemed to feel compelled to approach a few steps closer and regard him for a second. Unable to see well in the folds of the hood, he pushed it back, and when the glow of the torches in the night reflected off his yellow hair, the collective gasp that rose was unmistakable and rather satisfying. 

His companion winced and quickly popped the hood back up over the blond hair, guiding him through the gateway and inside the wall. They walked for a ways more, and Achilles, peeking out from under his hood, noted that there was a second wall, and the Knights Templar were apparently occupying the buffer zone between the two walls. Their destination seemed to be a stable-like structure that turned out to be not really a stable, but a sort of base camp for the leaders of the defense. Achilles glanced around, deciding that it functioned as armory, dining hall, and sleeping quarters for those whose duty included a rotation.

They brought him into the largest stall—it really did look like a stable that had been cleaned out—and presented him to a group of Knights who were gathered around a table, perusing a map in the time honored tradition of men at war.

“Jean, look,” said the man who’d given Achilles his cloak.

The white clad figure turned to regard Achilles. He was a heavy man with a fiery red beard, and he looked distractedly at his sudden guest, until the man who spoke pulled back Achilles’ hood, exposing his smooth face and damp yellow hair.

 _Oh, now you want it off,_ Achilles thought patiently, and watched the reactions of the Knights around the table. Again, there was the collective, indrawn breath.

“Where was he?” Jean asked tensely.

“On the beach, just as foretold.”

Jean nodded. “Then our time is limited. This is the sign,” he turned to look at his men, each in turn. “This is the sign.”

Achilles remained still, glancing around, checking the faces. No Hector.

“Shall I?” Asked Achilles’ escort.

Jean nodded. “Yes, he’s in the tower of King Hugh.”

With a gesture, the escort indicated that Achilles was to follow him, and so he did, having learned very thoroughly that someone would take him to his Hector, and his task was to keep his eyes open and look for his Hector! He mused to himself that really, he should have learned with Philip, hidden in his cowl, that a casual glance was not enough. It was difficult for Achilles not to berate himself at length over his past failures.

As they walked, he tipped his head back and looked around, noting that the walls had towers built into them in several locations, and each tower had the bright, colorful banners of the kings and noblemen who were either there or had sent money supporting the cause. They were rather festive and brave in the torchlight, he thought. 

Absently, Achilles let his eyes run over the banners as they walked. Suddenly, his feet halted of their own accord. One banner had a blue lion, with a yellow wall behind it, and a yellow flower across its paws. He stared in pleased confusion. 

His two escorts paused with him, looking back questioningly.

“What year is this?” He suddenly thought to ask.

Once again, the men looked at each other as if uncertain what to make of their guest. 

“The Year of Our Lord, 1291,” answered one.

They urged him forward, but for a moment he stood stubbornly still, brow contracting down. That could not be right, that was only 5 years. His shoulders slumped. Was he here to protect an infant Hector?? How would he recognize him? Babies all looked alike to Achilles!

He heaved a defeated sigh and moved forward again. The escorts brought him to a tower, and they repeated the whispers and stares, until finally the doors were opened, and Achilles was led into the tower, up the narrow and winding stairs to a room that was… not at the top. Apparently they had several floors. The door opened on a candle-lit room and he was ushered inside. 

Achilles glanced around. Was this a prison, or simply the quarters of a high-ranking nobleman or general? It was nicely furnished, although not luxurious. Candles, but no fireplace—well, the Holy Land wasn’t noted for its fierce winters. A glance behind him at the door revealed that the lock was on the inside of the door, not on the outside. Quarters, then, not prison, he decided.

Facing forward again, he saw that one of his escorts had gone to a desk in the corner, where a white clad figure in the Knights Templar garb was sitting slumped over, asleep on his folded arms. The candles next to him had burned low, but were still flickering.

“Sire,” the escort whispered. “Sire, wake up. He’s here. He has arrived. The time is at hand. You were right!”

Alertly, Achilles stepped forward, watching the figure at the desk come awake, and straighten.

“What?” He heard the husky voice say.

“Your vision, it has come true. He’s here. He’s real!” The escort broke into a smile and patted the white clad shoulder. “Louis, he’s real!”

Achilles watched the knight rise and turn, and that flower-like feeling bloomed in his chest once more. He was speechless with emotion. Louis came forward, and even in the candlelight Achilles could see the full, filled in muscles of his chest and neck, the close trimmed beard, the definition in his cheek and jaw that denoted fully matured Hector. 

“Thank you,” he said to the escorts, who bowed respectfully, and let themselves out, closing the door behind them.

Louis regarded Achilles for a moment in wonder, and then a smile grew on his face, that beautiful smile his warrior loved so much. He came forward, and put one hand on the blond head, drawing it to him until their foreheads were touching. With his other hand he caressed his angel’s shoulder and squeezed it.

“Welcome to the Crusades,” he whispered, with a loving twinkle in his dark eyes. “Are you ready for this?”


End file.
